


Half-Step Behind

by Aconitine



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Blind Character, Blind!Loki, Bromance, But then again none of the Avengers really are either, Drug Use, Everyone Needs a Therapist, F/M, Graphic Violence, Loki's not entirely sane, M/M, Mental Instability, PTSD, Past Torture, Self-Harm, Some really damn questionable Asgardian morals, Suicide Attempt, Supervillains go to the Supermarket, Wall-to-wall Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-23 18:57:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 55
Words: 233,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/929941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aconitine/pseuds/Aconitine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Escaping Asgard and the horrors dealt there is no easy task, and doing so comes at a price. Loki falls to Earth broken and blinded, rendered helpless in a city he can neither see nor begin to understand with enemies on all sides.</p><p>Worse than that is a far greater emptiness in his veins—a missing piece of him that should have been impossible to take, yet was rent from his body anyway—and something cardice-cold lurking in the darkest corners of his mind.</p><p>The trickster doesn't break easily, though, and he's always been a survivor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Darkness

When he’d first been forced to his knees and sentenced, the gilded halls and gleaming marble floors mocking the once-and-should-be king, he had been afraid. He never showed it, staring as calmly and impassively as ever at the (once) father before him as the prophecies played out. The sun was setting, casting long shadows as its golden face sank beneath the horizon and throwing a rainbow into the sky to match the Bifrost’s glory. And wasn’t that just the most suiting metaphor? The beginning of the end. The bringer of twilight. The pieces were being gathered for the last great acts of chaos and fire—the terror of a monster scorned.

Thor advanced toward him, his eyes colder than Jötunheim’s cruel frost, and for a fraction of a second the silver in his hand caught a sliver of light and shone brighter than the Tesseract. That cruel and torturous cube which he had never truly meant to take, only ever borrow for learning’s sake. Knowledge had always been his one great weakness, and education his drug of choice. The jewel of Odin’s many conquests—how could he have ever resisted?

But then he fell. Cast himself into nothingness in the hopes it would finally end, except that freedom never came—he just kept falling, dropping through Yggdrasil’s branches and the horrors of the abyss. Still he kept his mind intact, his one treasure even as terror gripped him all the stronger, but it was not enough.

Not when he was gripped tight by Him and landed on that place between realms.

He can’t remember how it happened—his memory is hazy, as if his body knows that to remember would be worse than death—only remembers the strangled scream. A pain so great that it shattered him, the feeling of being torn apart as his very essence was stripped from him. It was as though every molecule was rent in two and his body razed to the ground with the loss.

His magic, the treasure that made him _Loki,_ was gone.

It should not have been possible, to take such a thing from him. Not even the Allfather in all his power could have done it. Perhaps the emptiness of the abyss had already begun to claim and unravel him. If only he could have kept falling. Surrender. Die.

When He asked him to find it, he somehow managed to resist. Days, months, years, who knew in that poisonous berry on some strangling vine of the world tree.… But when the staff was placed in his hand, its power a soothing balm to the searing void within him, he could fight no more. With a suggestion planted and a madness growing, not even for a realm of innocents could he struggle against Him.

So he had stumbled into the darkness of a new realm—that awful thing He had slipped into his mind twisting every seed of grief, and fear, and rage into a blazing flame of murderous intent—and burned the world to the ground.

(Never had Thor noticed. Not the way he hesitated, the way he drew together the perfect team to stop him. Not the way his once shining green eyes had slipped to the hazel that had been gone since he was barely five hundred years old, nor the way that he was careless in each and every action, all a show and no subtlety. He'd never looked. Never seen. Never cared.)

Thus was he forced to nearly kowtow to his kidnapper—the man who had dared to call a monster son—condemned to eternal torture without so much as a word in his defence. Thor, who had so desperately called him brother even when blinded to the truth of his motivations, held him to the ground and pulled the leather roughly through his skin with no glint of remorse in his eyes. Not even when the first tears his brother had shed in front of him since he’d gained his magic traced paths down his cheeks. The prince had sewn his mouth shut and silenced the truth on the liesmith’s tongue.

Oh, he’d thought that was pain.

He’d balked at the dankness of the cave, the stone like ice against his back as he was held roughly against it, and seen the snake and known terror as he realized what was coming. Never had he dared to imagine _true_ horror. Now the acidic venom that seared its way across the bridge of his nose, over his eyes, and down his temples became the sweetest relief. Without even knowing it, He had been right.

He welcomed this pain.

(His sons, his beautiful youngest sons, twins with curling hair that shone like the palace itself… hardly five hundred years themselves. Váli, his saintly child, starved and turned into a wolf. Narfi, quiet and confused until the painful screams rang out. Their entrails turned to iron bindings, their only crime his name. Yes, pain was a merciful boon.)

Time passed and nobody came—out of fear or of apathy he couldn’t say—until one day he had struggled enough. In the purest form of agony he’d slipped his bonds, fallen to the frozen dirt, and dug shallow graves in the snow to give what small amount of respect he could for his innocent boys. Only then did he tear the stitches from his mouth and howl like some wild thing in absolute grief.

Light never welcomed him back into her bosom.

He’d walked for days, constantly tripping over brush and falling headfirst into trees or stone, and the descent of winter brought with it a chill great enough to tear down his Ás glamor. Still he’d struggled onwards until he’d found a hidden path, long forgotten and unmentioned in the ancient texts he’d poured over for so many centuries, whose warm embrace seared like fire even as the glamor reclaimed its hold.

 

*

He wakes into darkness, rough brick at his back and the rancid smell of half-burnt oil hanging in the air. It takes many dragging minutes before he can parse the cacophony of noise into its pieces after so long in silence, but slowly he manages to pick out the grumble of motors, din of conversation, and wailing cry of a siren somewhere in the distance.

Midgard. A city.

Yet still, there is nothing but a smothering blanket of nothingness—different and less painful than when his magic was torn from him, perhaps, but tragic nonetheless.

Someone calls angrily, and again. Another voice joins it. Male, he thinks? The words are mangled, and spoken with a strange accent that he half-remembers as if from a dream.

 _English,_ his mind supplies after too long a pause. He's shoved roughly back against the grating rasp of the building and feels frantically for anything he can use to get his bearings, but finds nothing. One of them grabs him by the shirt, but even emaciated as he is they cannot lift him. Instead they punch him in the gut, yelling, but his mind cannot translate quickly enough to make sense of the sounds. It’s been centuries since last he used the Allspeak, longer since he did so for any length of time, and translating spells are useless without power to back them with so everything is just incomprehensible noise. They punch him again, this time in the jaw, and his instincts finally kick in. He grabs the person (man?) by the throat and holds him against the wall, snarling back in his native tongue a threat to break his neck, but three sets of hands not weakened with starvation and pain pull him back, beating him until he slumps to the wet ground and stops struggling.

It feels like an eternity before they leave him, broken and bruised in a world he can neither see nor comprehend. He gives into sleep there.

 

*

A hand on his shoulder, gentler this time, wakes him.

“Sir, are you hurt?”

He manages to push himself off the ground to look toward the source of the sound. He tries to talk, to respond, but his throat is like sandpaper and he only manages a pained choke.

“Woah, easy there,” the voice tells him. “Take your time. What's your name?”

Swallowing a few times does little to soothe the burn. “L– Loki.“ His mind isn't functioning quickly enough to realize that on Midgard, perhaps it is wiser to keep his identity concealed. Hopefully the voice won't make the connection.

“Can you walk?”

He forces his back to yield to his will, and stifles a moan as it screams in pain. His legs fare hardly better, but he manages to stand. He reaches for a wall, entirely disoriented, and has to take a few steps before the uneven edge of the brick scratches his fingertips.

“Where–?” He doesn't quite manage the rest of the sentence but the voice answers anyway.

“Forty-seventh street, New York City.”

He hisses. Could that wretched path have led anywhere worse than the home of his enemies? But no matter, he holds little fear of them anymore—after all, what else can they take from him of consequence? He takes a few uncertain steps forward, his hand following the bumps in the brick, and runs his foot into something before stopping short. His heart speeds as he realizes he has no way to navigate, not with his two strongest senses stripped of him. The voice seems to catch on.

“You can't see?”

An off-balance laugh forces its way through his cracked lips. “Not unless the veil of darkness has suddenly wrapped this world in her embrace.”

“Is this what took your sight, then?”

A shaky breath that threatens to break into a manic giggle. “That depends heavily on your interpretation of 'this.' It was not those foul wretches, as I assume you mean.” He runs his fingers across the slick surface of the object he nearly ran into. Plastic, wet with rain; a seam runs along the side and there's a ridge below it. One of the boxes the mortals put their refuse in? It hardly matters.

“I'm to your left. Take my arm, above the elbow, and stay about half a pace behind me. I can lead you.”

He's got no other option, really. Follow a voice he cannot identify, or stumble blindly about until he dies or is killed. The voice (man? Man.) leads him out of the alleyway and into the chaos of the crowd. He follows nervously, starting at every brush of an arm against his, but the man is patient and warns him about potential obstacles in his way.

“There's a street here, and the crosswalk doesn't have any aural cues. You have to listen to the cars traveling perpendicular to you to stop, and try to be aware of anyone turning right. When it stops, you can cross. Small step down,” he warns, then leads him across the street.

“My name's Matt, by the way. My place is a ways away and I was already going to work, so I hope my office is alright. It's pretty small, only two other people and there shouldn't be anyone else for a few hours at least. That alright?”

He stumbles, tripping over his feet and tightening his grip on the man's arm.

“Woah, easy there. I'm not going to let you get hurt, don't worry. Here, building's on your right. Three steps up. Door pulls out, the hinge is on your right.” He hears the jingle of keys and the solid thunk of a deadbolt turning.

“Follow my arm to the handle.”

He does, and turns the knob to pull it open.

The man steps through the door, allowing him to follow before taking his arm again, and locks the door behind him.

“Not business hours yet, and Karen won't be in for a bit longer so it's just me and Foggy. Hey! Foggy!”

Heavy footsteps, then a pause. “Where the hell did you pick him up, Matt? What the hell happened?”

“Two blocks down in the alleyway. Can you grab the med kit? I think Karen moved it under the sink.”

A rustle of fabric. “Yeah, sure. Just a sec.”

Loki staggers and the man steadies him with his other hand. “Hey, come here. There's a chair a pace and a half to your ten o' clock.”

It takes him a moment to figure out how Midgardian clocks look and in his moment of hesitation the man's already helped guide him. He sinks heavily into a high-backed chair that's the softest thing he's felt in what have literally been years. He sighs in relief.

The heavy footsteps return. “Here you go. What the fuck happened to him? He looks like he's been to hell and back!”

He chuckles darkly. “Oh, if only. I would welcome the relief and the reunion with my daughter and sons.”

The second voice (Foggy, had he said?) doesn't respond for a second. “Are you blind? I'm just going by the scars here, but honestly I don't see how you can't be.”

He just nods. His throat hurts too much to waste his voice on trivial things.

“Matt, I'm not really sure how to respond except to say that I never thought the blind leading the blind would be quite so relevant.”

Something that sounds metal is set down and a latch clicks open. Papers rustle and glass clinks against something else. His attention is only vaguely drawn, the rest of it lies with the previous statement.

“You–“ he coughs and his throat makes its protest known, “You're blind?”

“Sure am. Have been since I was a kid. I'm guessing it's new enough for you that you haven't adapted much yet?”

He coughs again, harder this time. “That depends on your meaning of new. If you mean when the acid first started to burn then it was some time ago. I don't remember. If you mean when I woke up in the streets in total darkness, then it was not long before you found me.”

“Foggy, go grab a glass of water, would you? And, Loki, was it? I'm not sure what you're implying and it doesn't sound good, but for now I'm going to try and focus on getting you fixed up. Judging from Foggy's reaction it's a lot worse than I can tell, because he's seen me pretty beaten up before. What's the worst of your injuries, do you know?”

“My answers to all your questions are most likely conditional, so I will do my best to follow the meaning I believe you intend. I apologize in advance if I fail to do as such, my mind is in... other places at present. As for physical injuries, I believe the acid burns have mostly healed, although they still sting. My eyesight is most likely the largest issue, but there's nothing to be done for it. A bone in my arm feels out of place, and the rest is minor injury from the Hel-hated miscreants in the alleyway.” He hisses as something cool and damp stings at one of the deeper cuts. It smells like alcohol. “I haven't eaten in some time though, so if it would not be too much of a trouble I would appreciate a meal. I'm afraid I have nothing to pay with.”

“Not a problem. You have a place nearby?”

Another sting at an open wound. “Not as such. I highly doubt I have anywhere, now. Do not fear I will impose on you, whatever my current state I was still taught manners.” Heavy footsteps return, a little slower this time, and a rustle of fabric.

“Hold out your hand? The non-broken arm.”

He does, and a glass is pressed into it. He sniffs at the liquid inside.

“Don't worry, it's just water. Drink, slowly.”

He complies, and it's the closest to Valhalla he'll probably ever get. He wants to drink it all down, he's not had a drop of water on his tongue since the Battle begun and who knows how long ago that was, but if he does he know's he'll likely throw up and make things worse. So he sips at it measuredly, savoring every drop. “Thank the norns.”

He drops his head back against the chair with a sigh.

“Who did this to you?” the heavier one asks.

He laughs brokenly, grip on the glass nearly hard enough to shatter it. Realizing this he feels beside him and finds a wooden surface where he sets it down with a clink. “Many hands. The worst my would-be father and brother, although I believe the bone was originally broken by the beast and they only served to worsen it. There were others there, but I forget all but two of their faces. Others from this place, yet another from a place between. I should not be so surprised, I have known for a long time now how this ends.”

“And how's that?” the first man asks.

“Twilight.” Not that they will know the meaning, the old ways have fallen to obscure legend on Midgard. No longer do they remember their gods, not even the benevolent. Perhaps it's suiting.

“I can set your arm here, or we can go to the hospital if you prefer. I don't have plaster here so I'll have to makeshift a cast.”

“No–“ The water helped but his throat still aches in protest. “No hospitals. They'll find me.” Another rustle of fabric, a single light footstep.

“The people who did this to you?”

He nods. People or monsters, what's the difference? They'll find him anyway given enough time, but he has no desire to aid the process.

“Give me just a moment, I'll be back in a sec.”

There's a quiet pause, and the other voice speaks.

“More water?”

His body aches with want. “Half a glass, if you would, with a spoon or two of sugar and a bit of salt if you can spare it. You have my thanks.” A tiny ring of fingers brushing on glass and the footsteps retreat, leaving him alone. He readjusts a bit, trying not to further injure himself before he realizes it's a pointless pursuit.

Light footsteps return.

“Loki. I feel like I've heard the name. Should I know you?” Something metal is laid on the table with a thunk. “Hold out your arm. I need to find where the break is, but I'll do my best not to hurt you any more than necessary.”

The man's fingers ghost over his arm, slowly searching for the injured area. “I have few doubts you have heard my– ah! That's it, there.”

“Yeah, it's pretty swollen. How long's it been broken?”

He can't remember. The time all began to blur into a never ending darkness. “Months? I lost track of time. It won't need to be re-broken, though, my bones will not heal much out of place.”

“Okay, I'm going to try and reposition it, this is going to hurt.”

He clenches his jaw and grips the arm of the chair, stifling a whine of pain as the bone clicks back into place. His next breath is shaky, but the pain has already started to subside. “You no doubt have heard of me. It would not benefit either of us, I don't think, if you were to think too hard on where.”

A pause.

“I suppose that's fair enough, as long as you don't try to kill me or anything.”

Soft gauze is wrapped around his arm, up over his thumb and around his hand to keep it in place. A tear of fabric, and some sort of adhesive, he assumes, is used to hold it. The object on the table is removed with a scrape and pressed under his arm, bending slightly under his palm.

“Don't ask why I have arm splints laying around, you'd be surprised how many bones I've broken. Long story. Hey Foggy!”

The man returns and sets a glass back on the table.

“Sorry, you know how I am about stuff like that. Not exactly a fan of watching.”

“Can you call Karen and see if she can pick up some plaster on her way here?”

“Sure.”

Footsteps retreat. He feels for the glass, fingers closing around its cool surface.

Another light pressure on his arm, more gauze he guesses, to keep the splint on. A rustle of plastic and something else, and a cooling weight is lowered onto his arm.

“Hold that there for now, it should take the swelling down a bit. It's a bit early in the day for delivery, but the Chinese place a block down should be open. Is rice okay? It's probably good if you don't eat too much to start out if you haven't for a while.”

He has no idea what rice is. It's not like he's spent an overly large amount of time on Midgard recently, but it's food so he nods.

“Cool. I'll have Foggy order some when he's done talking to Karen. Want some Tylenol to help the pain? Assuming you're not allergic.”

The name sounds familiar. Some sort of Midgardian medicine. “What's it made of? Elementally?”

“Acetaminophen? I don't know the chemical formula, but I can look it up. Just a sec.”

He nods. There aren't many of Midgard's chemicals that are poisonous to those of Asgard, but in his state it's probably best not to risk it. There's a light tap and the man speaks.

“Chemical composition of acetaminophen.”

A pause.

“Chemical composition of acetaminophen is C8H9NO2,” a strangely stilted female voice replies.

He thinks for a moment, converting the Midgardian terms into ones he is more familiar with. “That should be alright. What's the dosage?”

“Two five hundred milligram pills, every six hours.”

“Triple it.”

A rattle and a click. “I don't know if that's a great idea. I didn't just fix you up to have you overdose on Tylenol.”

He rolls his eyes in exasperation. “I could probably take four times the human dose with no side effects. Three times is playing it safe.”

“You're not human?”

He laughs, then winces as the movement sends a sharp pain down his side. “Not last time I checked.”

“Guess I'll trust your judgement, then. Hand?”

He holds it out and six pills are placed in it. He swallows them dry.

“Give it ten or fifteen minutes. I'm not sure how much it will help, but it should take the edge off.”

The pill bottle clicks closed again. The heavier man returns and is sent back to the phone again with instructions to order food from the Chinese place, and he complains that he's not an errand boy. The other man says something but he's stopped bothering to translate. Between the effort of doing so and the pain that still burns through his body like flames, exhaustion takes hold and he slips into sleep. Some time later a gentle touch on his shoulder wakes him and he blinks awake slowly only to remember that he can't see. The man says something, he hears the word 'rice.'

Ah, yes, food. He straightens up and takes the warm box that is handed to him along with a fork (flexible, made of plastic? Midgardians are strange creatures).

“Slowly, remember.”

The warmth of the food is even better than the water, he thinks. He chews carefully and does his best not to over-indulge and make things worse later on—it's not the first time he's been starved, he knows how it works and how to eat afterwards. This time is more acute, having gone so long, but the principle is the same. When he finishes some time later, the man speaks.

“Karen's here and brought plaster so I can finish up on the cast. That okay with you?”

He nods. The sound of water, something hitting the side of glass (a bowl, he thinks), and the bag of ice is removed in favor of spreading plaster over the gauze. “You are practiced at this. Not in the way of a healer, but in the way of a warrior who must mend his own wounds.”

“I have my reasons.”

He doesn't push, just as the man has not pushed about anything he has said no matter how strange his words must seem. “You have my thanks. It is not often that I am offered aid without the promise of... considerable reward.”

“Well, technically I expect you not to kill me, and I think my life counts as a considerable reward,” the man jokes.

He allows himself a small smile. “I suppose so.”

“You said you don't have a place to stay. I've got a spare room, if you want, and my place is probably easier for you to navigate since I set it up for, well, me. To be navigable in the dark, I guess you could say. I can help you get used to blindness too, if you want, I've certainly got the experience.”

His instinctual distrust kicks back in at last, thank the norns, at this rate it's a miracle he hasn't gotten himself killed yet. “I don't think that will be necessary. It would be a burden to you and I dislike being in another's debt. I can find my own way.”

“Right. What are you going to do when you walk out that door into the crowd that you can't see? How do you cross the street, or know which door is which?”

Oh. Right. Norns.

“Look, you don't owe me anything. I want to help, and I know what it's like to go blind. I can teach you how to get around, how to cook and read, how to make sure you don't put a blue plaid shirt with red striped pants...”

“Owning either of those would just be in poor taste.”

The man laughs. “True, but you get the point. Don't worry about inconveniencing me because it's not a problem.”

There's one problem, though. “Any prolonged contact with me puts you in danger.”

“I can handle myself.”

Humans. Thinking they're so invincible even when their lives are barely long enough to have evolved at all. “I do not think you understand the gravity of the situation. It would be a shame for you to die because you were feeling kind.”

“Like I said, I can handle myself. If it comes down to it, I know how to fight, and hopefully it won't anyway. You need the help, I can give it. It's that simple. Come on, I can take you back there and teach you the basics if you want. There are only a few clients coming in today and Foggy can pick up the one or two who were mine. Let me grab you a sling for your arm and we can head out.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My general headcanon is that Old Norse is an offshoot of the Asgardian language, assimilated by the Norse people during the Æsir/Jötunn war, and as such when Loki speaks in his native language that's what it'll be based off of. I'm actually going to use Icelandic, since it's incredibly well-preserved and for the most part lines up with Old Norse, but is much easier to translate back and forth from.
> 
> By the way, I'm not going to demonize Thor too much here, things will make more sense as the story moves forward.
> 
> (also, I know that "twilight of the gods" is a mistranslation, but the metaphor is fitting so i'm using it anyway)


	2. Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the snark.

Central Park is his favorite place in New York, he thinks. The openness was daunting at first, no walls to trail, just space in every direction and if he got lost... But he's learned to navigate using the edges of the paths as a guide, knows how to get from his little apartment in Hell's Kitchen to the fountains, the zoo (hearing the different animals had been strange at first), and especially the best spot of all – a bench near the Pond. It's a little out of the way but it's nice. He can hear the wind in the trees, the lap of the water and the flap of bird's wings, the mothers and their children behind him on the path, the school groups, the crunch of gravel under horse's feet when mounted police ride by. He can feel the warmth of the sunlight on his face and in the summer his black hair would become hot to the touch. As the seasons had turned and the crunch of leaves signaled the coming of fall he could smell the difference in the air, less sweet and more earthy. And that was accurate, Earth smelled different than Asgard. It was a pleasant change.

It's on that bench that he tends to play, the pleasant vibration of the strings traveling down the bow through his arm as the violin sings (and each violin has it's own little difference in the way it sounds, he tried dozens before he found this one). He leaves the case open and sometimes people drop money in which he usually gives to a few homeless families he knows, but that's not really why he plays. He plays because it's indiscriminate. It's his, had been even before everything back when he'd first heard his mother playing, and then the Fossegrimen had helped him perfect his technique for a small cut of meat he'd stolen from the kitchens when the cook's back was turned. In the music he can lose himself, close his eyes and forget the blindness. Forget the scars that crossed from one temple to the other, the ones on his jaw and across his collarbone. The half-healed holes over and under his lips from when his once-brother had proven his loss of love and the ones on his ankles and wrists where he'd struggled against the bonds. None of that exists here in between the phrases, the dissonance and descant each in their measure and the sweet haunt of his own arias. This was his escape.

The crunch of leaves behind him alerts him to another's presence. They're uneven, lighter at some times than others as if whoever it is tries to hide their presence by jumping between the quieter patches (they fail quite miserably, though). For a moment he worries, but the person (man, from the cologne) doesn't seem to pose a threat and he can hear others nearby. There's a slight brush of fabric against his side and stops in the middle of a phrase.

“I may be blind, but I am hardly deaf.” He moves the cane that the man had apparently decided to steal to lay behind him on the bench and smirks. “Perhaps next time you should keep your footsteps more even and avoid the dead leaves.”

“Dammit, I swear the world just decided to fuck with me today.” Definitely a man. His hand grips the back of the bench and it bows slightly as he leans his weight into it. “I'm impressed you could hear me over your violin, though. So are you actually blind, or just pretending to get a bit more cash from the sympathetic mothers?”

He chuckles. “I am most definitely blind, and I think you will find that those who cannot see must learn to be more alert in a world such as this. Your voice sounds familiar. Have we spoken before?”

“Not that I can remember,” the man shifts his weight a bit, “but you've probably heard of me. I'll give you three guesses if you want. Ten bucks if you can figure out who I am.”

He gathers the coins and bills in his violin case into a paper bag that fits into the outer pocket and lays the instrument in the velvet, feeling for the bow rest before sliding it in as well as he ponders. “I have heard you before yet you have never spoken to me directly, which means you must speak or perform in some sense. If you assume that I know who you are then that implies that your name is fairly well-known and from your voice you are confident enough about that fact to denote it has been for some time,” he deduces, “but that only narrows it so much.”

“Well aren't you just the Sherlock to my Watson.”

Oh, right, the cocky attitude. That should help narrow it down. “The last time I met a man with quite your amount of arrogance it was–“ And then it hits him, the recognition a flood of conflicting emotions. Anger and fear, primarily. He's not heard it in a year or so, had nearly forgotten it. He grips the bench hard enough that his knuckles are probably turning white.

“I'm waiting.”

He drops his voice to a cold and deadly tone and turns with a dark glare. “Stark.”

The weight on the bench vanishes abruptly. “Fucking hell!”

“Are two words you should never again speak in my presence if you wish your tongue to remain in your mouth. I may not have a knife on me, but I'm sure I could improvise with a spare violin string.”

“But you're–“

“Careful there, Stark, don't strain yourself. I'd hate to see you give yourself a stroke because you were trying to use multi-syllabic words.” His voice stays level but he maneuvers slowly to hold the cane between them.

“Loki!” His voice breaks halfway through and it comes out sounding like a squeak.

He scowls. “Very good. Now if you'll kindly put the ten dollars into my case and forget you ever saw me, I'll be on my way.” He's freaking out a bit, but thousands of years of practice keep any emotion besides anger concealed.

“But you're–! Weren't you–? My scanners didn't– How did you–?”

“Ten dollars. Case.”

He hears a rustle of fabric and the light rasp of paper when it's pushed into the case (the man's probably shocked enough to see him that it'll take him a few seconds to catch up, so he'd better make use of the time). He feels for the velcro and straps his violin in before latching the case (clunk snick) and stands, cane in hand.

“I would advise you not to tell anyone of our meeting if you care for your life. Kveðjum, Stark, and I sincerely hope we never see each other again.” He walks pointedly away and doesn't hear footsteps so the idiot mortal is probably just staring in confusion. Good. He can get away.

He finds his way to Bethesda Fountain by memory, gliding the cane to the edge of the path and back to help guide him. Finding a place to sit is always the tricky part, there are usually other people there and it's a bit awkward to run into a steady line of others or their belongings. He ends up asking someone (and he hates, _hates_ having to rely on other people for such a simple task) and sits down on the rough concrete that's been warmed by the sunlight. The familiar trickle of the fountain is comforting, soothing the anxiety that all his months of practice and training have never been able to truly erase but only dampen. Had he his magic this would not be an issue, he could have easily sensed his way around even without healing himself, but it feels like half his connection with the outside world has been cut off and the weakness is terrifying. He trails his fingers through the cool water, enjoying the slight splash and subsequent ripple of it.

After a time he hears small, familiar footsteps rushing towards him and a gleeful cry of “Serrure!” His chosen name, an identity of Earth's own. French for “Lock,” which he found humorous because nobody ever made the connection, not even Matt or Foggy (who he's taken to calling by his given name Franklin, because it seems more polite and even cast out of Asgard he's still a prince).

“Lee! Tessa!” he shouts and the two small children rush into his arms, “I'd feared you had forgotten about me!” The older of the two, Tessa, climbs into his arms and buries her face against his neck. He can feel her cheshire-sized grin and smiles as well. Lee has always been far shyer, and climbs onto the bench beside him.

“I couldn't forget about you, Serrure! You're my favorite!” she exclaims. He beams and ruffles her hair. “Will you play your violin for us?”

“I'm afraid I wouldn't know what to play! Have you any suggestions, Lee?”

The boy leans softly into Loki's arm as he wraps it around him, quiet in contemplation. “I like... I like Frére Jaques,” he mumbles.

He unpacks the violin, but closes the case this time. “Will you sing along with me?” The girl replies enthusiastically and the boy nods. He picks up the violin and plays more softly than before, just for them as he forms the familiar tune (it's a favorite of Lee's) and embellishes liberally to harmonize as the two sing. They ask for a couple other songs and he improvises a few more, a little concert for three. They've become his favorites, both live with their mother, often sleeping in subway stations since her house was foreclosed on and she'd lost her job. The kids took it in stride, helping the best they could, but he's taken to watching them occasionally for her while she job-hunts. Sometimes it hurts to see them, but at the same time it helps to soothe the aching hole in his chest his boys had once filled.

After a time he packs up his violin and turns to them. “It's not late enough for dinner, but it's been some time since we last had crêpes. Does that sound good to you?”

Lee tugs on his sleeve. “Can I get the one with ice cream in it?” he asks hesitantly.

“I want the Nutella one!” the girl shouts, and he can hear the taps her shoes make as she bounces up and down.

He smiles at them and stands. “Of course you can. Lee, I do believe it's your turn?” Lee nods and he bends down beside him. The boy climbs onto the fountain and then onto Loki to ride piggy-back, and the girl presses the cane into his free hand. She leads him to a nearby crêpe stand and he orders for them along with a strawberry one for himself. The order comes to just over eleven dollars and he pays with a ten (folded length-wise) and a two ones (not folded at all). He's learned to pay in a way that he'll receive only ones and change in return, he's been cheated a few too many times by less-than-honorable salespeople. When he gets the change back he checks it, making sure dimes and quarters are ridged on the sides. Satisfied, he thanks the girl with a smile and hands the pastries to the children before taking his own and appreciating the warmth and sweet smell of fried dough and strawberries.

Tessa shows him to an empty bench (she's gotten used to the quirks of dealing with someone blind and knows what he needs and when he needs it) and they sit, just talking for a while about school and whatever else comes to mind. He offers counsel to Lee about standing up to a bully in class and how to walk with more confidence. Tessa gets help on her homework and he quizzes her on spelling and addition. It's a little domestic but he doesn't really mind – he never got to spend time with his own children even when they were young, so it's a welcome outlet for his neglected motherly and fatherly instincts. Plus their joy and enthusiasm towards life is refreshing, untampered by the pains of adulthood even in light of their situation.

He's checked his watch occasionally, flipping back the domed cover to feel the hands, and eventually it's time for them to go so they're not caught out after dark. He pulls out the paper bag and hands it to Tessa before unfolding his cane and standing.

“Be careful,” he warns her. “Where are you sleeping?”

“Dunno,” she replies, “Mom told us to meet'er at the seven terminal by forty-second so probably there somewhere.”

He frowns. “No word from your father?”

“No... Mom's trying to find a job but it's not going good.”

He ruffles her hair soothingly.

“I'm sure she'll find something soon. I'll keep an eye out, and if I know of anything I'll be sure to let you know. See you next weekend?”

“Yeah!” She grins and hugs his legs. He squeezes the boy's shoulder gently.

“Be good you two, and tell your mother I send my best regards.”

He feels her nod before she steps back. “Thanks again, Serrure. Love you! Come on, Lee!” Her footsteps fade away and he runs a hand through his hair, a smile refusing to leave his face.

 

*.*.*.*

 

Three weeks later finds him in a small coffee shop that he's come to love. The baristas know him and what he likes, and tease him good-naturedly with threats that they'll draw something unseemly in his drink if he's not careful. He's learned the layout and has a favorite table near the back where he's surrounded by the smell of old books and freshly brewed coffee. It's a funny Midgardian drink, one that took a few tries to get used to, but he finds it pleasant and warming now. Plus the shop is usually quiet and he feels safe here even lost in a book.

It's probably because he's so engrossed that he doesn't hear the quiet footsteps approach and he jumps a good foot in the air when someone suddenly pokes him in the arm, nearly spilling his coffee. He turns to scowl at whoever interrupted. “Excuse me.”

“Well, well well. Didn't expect to see you here, what was it? Serrure?”

He bristles and spits back, “I thought I told you not to follow me, Stark. Are you truly so unwise?” How much had he seen? Did this put the children in danger?

The chair scrapes against the floor as it's pulled out and Stark drops into it with a thunk. His plate clinks agains the inlaid marble chessboard in the table as he sets it down.

“Yeah, right, like I'm going to let Earth's Most Wanted wander off without checking him out.”

He sips at his coffee, masking his unease with practiced grace. “I find your lack of faith disturbing. And don't think I didn't catch that double entendre, you should know I'm completely out of your league.”

Stark scoffs at him, affronted. “I'll have you know that I'm one of the best-looking, richest, smartest men on this planet thank you very much.” He taps on the book, which Loki had closed while he sat down. “I thought you were blind. Not doing a great job with that lie, buddy.”

Ah. Of course. He hesitates, wondering if it would be better to pretend to have his sight, his power. Seem dangerous, or seem helpless? It's a lose-lose situation, but in the end he decides that hopefully if he seems harmless the Avenger won't hurt him. He feels for the worn cover of the well-referenced book (a guide to law he's been studying) and spins it to face the man. It opens with a thud and the paper rustles as he opens it to a random page. There's a moment of space before Stark speaks with sudden apprehension.

“Braille.”

He nods and pulls the book back toward himself.

“So you're, like, actually blind? Sorry, just having a hard time with that since a year ago, you know, you were kind of blowing up Manhattan.”

“Why do you think I didn't realize you were following me last time, or know it was you behind me until you spoke? Do you honestly think I have reason to pretend not to notice you interfering with my life?” He sets his mug down carefully, the same place he always does so he doesn't knock it over by mistake (though the baristas have taken to giving him heavier mugs to help out), and pulls his sunglasses off and folds them on the table in front of him. Pushing a stray lock of hair out of his face he raises his head, baring the scars for the man to see.

There are a few uncomfortable moments of silence and anxiety wells in his chest. This was a really, really bad idea. If Stark were to tell anyone, even hint that he was here, he'd be sent back to that _place_ , that world of infinite pain and what if they killed more of his children? Sleipnir would be the easiest, though inconveniencing for Odin, or Fenrir if they dared. Jormungandr was further away but the least risk to them. Only Hela and now Vali and Narfi were safe.

“Well shit,” the man says, seemingly at a loss for words. After a moment to catch up he asks a question he'd worried was coming. “Can't you heal your eyes with magic or whatever whacko science you use?”

He replaces his glasses with a broken laugh and looks away. “Yes, I suppose I could.” What does he say? That he is blind and powerless in a world of those who would happily kill him, if they were feeling particularly merciful? Would he tell Thor, or kill him himself knowing that he had no way to defend himself? He certainly had cause, he could not deny him that.

But again, he pushes aside his misgivings because he has little choice. Someone drops a plate in the other room and he starts, before turning back to Stark.

“Once upon a time I could, perhaps, I don't know. The extent of my injuries is severe and it would push even my limits, I never was good at major healing. It's draining. But even under ideal circumstances I haven't been able to for years now.” The confession is almost physically painful, he's not spoken to anyone about it. Matt only knows the bare minimum and there is nobody else. Thor, once, but no longer. He'll never forget the ice in his brother's eyes that day.

“What, getting out of practice with your mojo? Seemed alright when you were blowing us up.” And oh, the sarcasm in the voice, so light in the wake of tragedy he could not comprehend... it couldn't even anger him. It just made him impossibly weary. He was long since used to suffering in silence.

“Thor never noticed,” he begins and really hopes he won't regret this later. With his luck, his fate already sealed by the norns and handed down in prophecy, he will and he knows it. But what's the point in fighting the coming night anyway? “My eyes, they– As I'm sure you recognize, I have long been a sorcerer. One of the most powerful in all the realms. I first reached out to pull at the threads that bind each infinitely small piece of the universe together when I was barely five hundred and my eyes for the first time flared from grey to green. My magic reflects in my eyes and they have always been brighter than any normal man's, Asgardian or otherwise. That which took my sight did not dull my eyes,” he explains with anger blunted by time. “Perhaps my fall had already begun to unravel me, I'll never know for it should never have been possible. When I landed, crashed after He saw me, on that place between worlds, He ripped every shred of magic from my mind and body. It was three years ago in your time that I woke without it, longer in my own. I don't know how long I was there, lost count while He broke me. Not only was my power stripped from me, but my connection to that infinite possibility was as well. Never again will I be able to catch energy in my fingertips or make Yggdrasill sing a harmony far greater than that of any violin.” The weight of the secret so long kept tries to lift but is crushed back under the dread that settles over him. No peace will be found here.

A swish and a softer clink than before, probably biscotti or a cookie in the man's coffee from the sound of it. He takes a long sip of his own before Stark speaks.

“You sound awfully calm about that.”

And that's the worst part, isn't it? That it's become his new normal. A constant ache that will never truly leave, but that has become a part of him that he has to live with. He is resigned to his fate. “I can either accept my fate and move forward or stay trapped in the horrors of that time and shatter whatever sanity I might still hold. While it's not what I once had I've survived and managed to build a life here. I've been gifted far more than some.”

“Like the kids in the park?”

The thought brings a small smile to his face, their unconditional kindness something never known on Asgard where even the children were frightened of him. He rests his chin on his hand. “Like them.”

“I've gotta admit,” Stark replies, “I didn't peg you as the type, getting along so well with kids.”

His smile slips. “There are many things you do not know about me, Stark.” The man seems to sense that it's a dangerous topic and backs off, switching gears.

“So no plans of global destruction for the time being?” Yes, because that was so much better. His expression darkens further.

“No, I do believe my dish to Asgard is best served cold. I will bring twilight, have no doubt, but not for a good while yet. Not for several of your lifetimes.” The coldness slips from his face, and he laughs half-heartedly. “I assure you the most threat I am to New York is burning my apartment complex down with a repeat of last month's toaster incident.” He drinks again from his coffee, the now-familiar smell calming him slightly.

The man seems to decide the most important thing to take from what he's said, and it's not what he had expected. Not that he minds. “You live in an _apartment?”_

“Where did you think I live, Stark, a villainous lair deep in a maze of dark underground tunnels and surrounded by the bones of my victims?” He raises an eyebrow in amusement. The man's pause affirms that yes, that is exactly what he'd been thinking. He rolls his eyes even though he knows he can't tell. “Stark, no one, villain or otherwise, actually does that.”

Another swirl in the man's latte. “Doom's got a stone castle filled with his evil robotic creations, Magneto at one point lived on an island surrounded by other mutants in cages, and Doc Ock and the Green Goblin both hung out in the sewers for a while working on their psycho science fair projects. You'd be surprised.”

He tries and fails to stifle a snort at that. “Surely you jest.”

“No jests here, look it up. The villain stereotype had to come from somewhere. Besides, you did have a whole little research facility in a series of underground tunnels so you're already a third of the way there.”

“Of course. Remind me to go grave-robbing if I'm going to complete the picture. Also to leave a note for the good Director and a camera so I can hear his reaction when he finds it.”

“Or how about not, because then I have to suit up, fly my ass out there, and then explain to Fury why I'm giggling like a little girl at a sleepover instead of furiously tracking you down.”

He smirks. “You only make me want to do it more.”

“Ass.”

“Common-kissing knave.”

“Hey, I don't care how common they are if they're hot.”

“Touché. Though I feet obligated to tell you,” he adds, “for a man as supposedly intelligent as yourself, your range of insults is dismal.” His fingers brush against one of Stark's chocolates by mistake and takes the opportunity to steal it for himself. The man squeaks in protest.

“Assbutt! That was mine!”

“Not anymore it's not. And case in point.” He pops the truffle into his mouth with a sly grin.

He hears the other two as they're pulled closer to the other side of the table possessively. “Fine then, you carcass fit for hounds,” the other man rebukes.

“Impressive, I didn't think you had it in you.”

“Actually, that was Shakespeare.”

“You are absolutely pathetic and a disgrace to your species.” He thumbs open the clasp on his watch face and runs a finger over the dial. “I should be leaving, I have a meeting soon and I'm going to be late.”

“This is the most bizarre thing ever.”

“What, that I have a life? You should try it sometime.”

A pause.

“Dude. Somehow you've gone from 'you will all kneel before me' to 'I live in an apartment and go to meetings and shit'. Excuse me if I'm a little confused by the sudden change of events.”

“Not all that sudden.” He pushes his chair back and stands, picking up his cane from where it leans against the wall and finding his book by touch. “I've been here for months.” He turns to leave then pauses. It's a long way back to the Kitchen, where he's meeting with Matt and a client to work on a new case. Matt said she was innocent (and he was always, _always_ right), but all the evidence is stacked against her and they don't have an awful lot of time to work out a good defense. He really needs to be there the whole time, the last thing he wants is for her to end up in jail for a crime she did not commit. He's been there. And he's keeping her out. Oddly enough, that's enough incentive for him to override the potential threat. Well, that combined with the anxiety that comes with walking alone with only a cane for a guide. He turns his head back to Stark.

“Would you walk with me?”

That seems to catch him by surprise. “Uh, sure, why?”

“You try closing your eyes and walking into a road. Plus I've got something I can't miss and the route I'm used to isn't very direct.” And he knows he should say it, knows he needs to, but it doesn't make it much easier to do so. “I could use your aid, Stark.”

It seems to be enough to convince the man, maybe out of surprise or maybe out of some ulterior motive, it's hard to say. “So how does this work? And equally important, where are we going?” The chair scrapes and something paper on the table shifts. A bag, maybe? One of the pastry ones. Then he feels his presence beside him, the slight change in air pressure he's learned to interpret.

“Give me your arm.” He breaks down the cane since he hopefully won't need it.

“I'm not donating pieces to your your freaky lair,” the man rebukes but offers his arm anyway.

“Now you walk and I follow. If you run me into anyone or the side of a building rest assured I will kill you slowly and hang your head as a warning to all who pass. The rest of your bones, of course, will go to the lair. If we go to West Forty-Eighth and Tenth Avenue, in Hell's Kitchen, I know the way from there.” He and Stark share that trait, he's noticed. Covering up fear and weakness with faked arrogance. It's effective, though.

“I'm not going to point out the irony of you going to Hell's Kitchen. I think it speaks for itself.”

“Oh, you have _no_ idea,” Loki replies drily.

A rustle of fabric and the dull tap of fingers on glass (he's come to associate it with smart phones, it's fairly distinctive). “I've set Jarvis to edit the security footage from any cameras we pass in real time so that Fury or any of the other SHIELD grunts don't happen upon it by mistake. They like to 'keep an eye on me' as they call it. I think it would be a little hard to explain away the fact that I'm helping Earth's most wanted cross the street. That'll go over fantastically.”

He snorts, but it's either a reassurance or a trap. Stark could easily be sending it all directly _to_ the director and try to provoke violence. He won't fall into that one. Not that he likely could anyway. He's comfortable enough while they're still in the coffee shop, he learned the building months ago, but they immediately have to cross a street and after that he's pretty much lost. He follows half a pace behind the man and has to repress the long-ingrained habit of praying to the norns. If they existed, they'd never listened anyway. The rush of traffic, the coming and going of the crowds, or the unexpected brush of a sleeve and the bump of a suitcase, he becomes hyper-aware of everything and tightens his grip without thinking. He rarely takes a sighted guide, has never been great on trust and it's a huge exercise of it. Franklin helps him occasionally if he needs it, and Tessa guides him as well, but that's largely the extent of it. He and Karen have little more than a business relationship so he's never asked her before either.

He has to keep reminding himself that Stark has done nothing to indicate an intent to harm so far and that he really needs the help. The man learns quickly, warning him of curbs and hazards and narrow spaces and he tries, he really tries to trust even a little bit but it's difficult. He wouldn't trust him in Stark's place anyhow, considering his actions.

“So how old are you, then?” Stark asks out of nowhere. “I mean, I know you guys are like ancient gods or aliens or whatever, but it's not something that's ever come up in conversation so I've got no idea about you and Thor.”

“Isn't it seen as impolite to ask an adult their age on Earth?” He runs his fingers over his watch face. Is this meant to glean data from him?

He feels the man shrug. “In western culture, yeah, but it's not like I've ever been huge on following the rules. Besides, I'm curious!”

“I suppose that is fair in exchange for your aid,” he nods, “I am a bit over three thousand, and Thor is just over eight hundred years older.”

“Holy crow.”

He chuckles. “You have no idea how humorous your Midgardian phrases are when put into an Æsir context.”

“I'm not even going to ask. How does that translate, though, to a human age? I mean obviously not exactly, since your years and ours are probably different what with the different planetary orbits and all, but just in a general sense.”

He has to work out the math in his head. “It's hard to say exactly, because the way we age is different. Like a bell curve. Our early and later years are shorter relative to those of our young- to mid-adulthood. Taking that into account... I would be in my mid to late twenties, Thor three or four years more..”

Stark stops short and he stumbles forward a bit. The man quickly apologizes. “Whoops, sorry, my bad.” He stares back disdainfully as Tony presumably stares like an imbecile.

“Fuck, you're barely even an adult!”

It's his turn to shrug. “Like I said, it's hardly exact. Obviously we have millenia more experience than you but in terms of maturity, yes.” They start to walk again while the man processes.

“Now that I think about it, though, you looked a lot older in the battle. How does that work?”

“I told you before that I spent a long time in the place between Yggdrasill's branches. It took a toll mentally and physically, and then the staff fed off my life source alongside the Tesseract for power. Having spent enough time away from it following its destruction, my body has healed itself. Well, to an extent.”

“Weird.”

“Such is the difference between our realms. Living here is just as strange for me, as the things you consider commonplace are vastly different from what I grew up with. The last time I spent any amount of time on Earth was centuries ago and customs have greatly changed since then.”

The man slows. “This is your stop, buddy.”

“I appreciate your assistance,” he bows slightly, “perhaps we will see each other again.” And hopefully it will not end with his imprisonment or death.

“No problem,” comes the reply as the man steps away, his sleeve scraping against the rough brick wall beside them. “See you around.”

They part ways, and he manages to make it through the door just as the meeting starts.

*

“I apologize for my lateness.” He knows the office by heart and between him and Matt it's kept clean enough that negotiating it's not an issue. He quickly finds the chair beside Matt's and sits, leaning his cane against the wall behind him. “I ran into an old acquaintance out in Midtown and it was a rather... delicate situation.”

The case notes rustle as Matt pushes them towards him and he flips them open, running his fingers along the overview to refresh his memory.

The woman's purse lands on the desk with a thud and a clunk. Must be keeping bottles of makeup or perfume or something in there. It's irrelevant data and he lets it go. “So, you're both blind?” she asks incredulously.

Matt laughs. “Yep. We take the term 'blind justice' to a whole new level.”

“On the up side,” he adds, “it makes sharing case notes a whole lot easier.” Well, except for when Franklin had to see them which got to be kind of a hassle, but still.

The woman shifts in her seat but doesn't comment.

“Oh, my apologies!” Matt's chair scrapes back. “I haven't formally introduced us yet. I'm Matthew Murdock and this is my associate, Serrure Fürst. Serrure, this is Alicia Cross.”

He stands as well, offering his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Cross.”

They both sit, and Matt starts breaking down the case for them, a custody dispute after her boyfriend abused both of them and she ran away with her seven-year-old son. The boyfriend (and the boy's father) is trying for custody rights, and from what she's told them if that happens the kid's in a lot of danger. He's already been in the hospital more than once, as has she, and his conception was an unreported date rape with the man whom she hadn't managed to escape until now.

“I feel obligated to tell you now,” he keeps his voice calm, “that these sort of cases tend to be difficult to win. Statistically, when mothers in an abusive relationship try to gain custody as does the father, the father often gains some of not all custody.” He hears the sharp intake of breath. “But I swear to you, we will do everything in our power to keep your son safe. On my honor. It's going to be exacting at times, but I need you to promise me that you'll be strong and we'll make it through this. Alright?”

She sniffles and there's a pause (she's probably nodding). “Yeah. Okay.”

Matt's pages rustle before he speaks. “We just want you to know what you're up against now, instead of finding out later. Now, let's go over what's working for and against us and go from there.”


	3. Grief

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Things are going to get potentially trigger-y from here on out—I'll try to keep it covered in the tags, but if you're unsure I'd have someone you know screen it for you or ask me either in the comments or on tumblr, which is linked to in my profile.)
> 
> Enjoy!

He doesn't get home until later than usual, probably seven or eight in the evening, when the air has gained teeth and nips at his skin. The familiar smell of the vanilla and pumpkin spice candles he's never lit welcome him in as he breaks down his cane and hangs it in its place by the door, his keys on the hook beside it and his coat two more down. He trails his fingers across the wall to the cool granite counters in the kitchen, grabbing a small pot, third cabinet from the right, and sets it to boil (small burner on the left, knob rotated to face the opposite direction). He finds it simultaneously irritating and hilarious that he's learned to use a stove but he's never actually seen one. The image he has in his head is just what he's learned by feel and is probably completely wrong.

He's forgotten to label the boxes of pasta again so he has to find the stelline by touch. Granted, he needs to go shopping soon so it's not really that difficult. The soup base is in the refrigerator, top shelf on the right in a glass jar, leftover tomato, mushrooms, and zucchini the next one down.

He'd known when he read the files the first time that this case would be a bit close to home for him, although he wouldn't be able to say anything. Not that any of his children were abused by their parents, but their grandparents (namely grandfather, Frigga would never harm them) are another story. He isn't going to let another mother go through that, and he wishes he could tell her that he understands. He can't though, nobody understands a mother's love except for a mother, and he can't risk his true identity being discovered.

Herbs are the drawer to the right of the refrigerator, those thankfully labelled in braille (except for the basil, for some reason, which he makes a note to fix after dinner) and above the drawer sits a fresh clove of garlic and an onion next to the glass jar of olive oil, the one with the raised designs he thinks are vines but isn't sure.

It's times like these that he wishes for Thor as he remembers him. In his mind he's separated Thor and the Odinson as two different entities, opposites of each other. The protective brother who would keep him safe when he was barely a tot and defended him against all those who would disrespect his name, and the cold pawn in another's game, unable to make his own choices. But in the end they're one and the same.

A hiss comes from the stove, the water's boiling, and he tips the pasta in and sets a timer before finding a small knife to cut the vegetables with. Cooking had been nerve-wracking at first, worrying about the heat and timing and not cutting himself by mistake, but once he thought of it like potion making (which he hadn't ever been incredibly fond for practicality’s sake but was still competent at) things became a lot easier. Most of his brewing had been in the dark anyway, he just needed to stop over-thinking everything that could go wrong and learn to listen and feel.

He was always alone before. Thor was the only one who listened as he'd screamed and cried and _grieved_ at each new child being rent from his arms while he was held back, struggling and calling on every drop of magic and strength at his disposal until his body burned so hot it froze. He's gained some odd sort of respect among a few here, but it's not the same as being... he doesn't need to think about that right now. Or ever. Needs not to think about it, actually.

He turns off the stove, drains the pasta, and sautes the onion, garlic, and mushrooms, listening for the change in sizzling and the salty-sweet smell of their juices before pouring in the broth and setting a timer. He leans back against the counter and just breathes for a few minutes, trying to clear the stray emotional cobwebs from the corners of his mind. Emotion is weakness unless used to fuel rage, and even then it is a dangerous chink in one's armor. Something others can twist and use against you. Like Him.

Never again.

He may have lost his power, his sight, his family, but he still has his mind - his greatest weapon of all. So he sharpens and polishes it for when the time comes and he brings twilight upon Yggdrasill. He is patient. He can wait.

The timer goes off and he stirs in the stelline with practiced precision, tipping some of the soup into a bowl and leaving the rest on a cool burner for later. He bypasses the table (he hardly ever uses it anyway, he's not sure why it's still there) and sits on the couch, careful not to spill the scalding liquid.

At the moment there's no real plan except to wait. Wait for an opportunity, what it will be he doesn't know. He needs more power, needs to be able to act on his own without a cane or guide. The soup is hotter than he expects and he swallows quickly in an attempt not to burn his tongue. But what of Stark? Will he tell the director of that wretched organization that he's on Midgard? If so, what course of action will they take, and how can he best prevent it? Probabilities, possible situation, escape plans flit through his mind, each taken and quickly processed before tossing it aside to the flames. He has few weapons, none that he can carry safely with him and none that can not be turned back against him. No doubt if they catch him again he will be gagged, they have learned that much from last time. He cannot count on words with them, only action. There's no way to fight back against them in his current condition, not without being able to see or sense them more accurately with so many of them against him – the most he could do would to hope that they came from all sides and take as many down as possible before he fell as well.

No, that would not do.

He blows on his soup this time and enjoys the saltiness. The flavors here are far different here than on Asgard, some he likes better and some far less so. Vegetable soup is acceptable and not too difficult. And it smells divine.

No, the only way to survive is to escape if they come for him, disappear altogether. Again, there are few options for how to do so. He cannot drive one of their cars without his sight, and there are no horses to steal. Once they make public his identity nobody will be willing to help him. If he can't escape, then, he has to hide.

He's good at hiding, especially in plain sight. And he knows more than a few of the homeless, perhaps they could offer shelter in one of the more... out of the way areas. They will come for a Loki in glorious regality, and they will not find him. They fail to realize that he is not bound by the same convention as Thor. He will do whatever necessary to survive.

He finishes the soup and washes the bowl and spoon, putting the leftovers in the refrigerator for the next day. Once he's cleaned (because leaving a mess you cannot see is a bad idea) he trails the wall to the corner of the living room where a small table stands, level with his stomach if he sits, and he does.

This is the part of his home he knows best. This table, each element on it in its perfect place. Some of them were difficult to obtain here, some easier. The neighbor's cat had always been fond of him, snapping its neck was a simple matter. And he'd pretended to be so distraught when the woman told him, delusional thing believing him because he was, power or not, still the god of lies. Its smallest thoracic vertebra is the perfect size. The herbs he'd found at an obscure vendor's in Chinatown. They weren't quite what he had before, but they are sufficient for his purposes. Perhaps the hardest thing to obtain was the translucent yellow desert glass (not that he could tell by sight, he only knew from experience), as the only source of it was protected by the Egyptian government. It took weeks to obtain, speaking the right words at the right times to the right people, with a little cash incentive. Now he had it, though.

He pulls the graphite bowl towards him and fills it with a small layer of melted snow from a very specific glacier in Iceland. To anyone else it would hold no significant value, but what they are unaware of is that centuries ago it was a Bifrost site. He has water shipped from it weekly. The herbs go next, their acrid aroma piercing at his nostrils painfully. Cats bones follow, a small amount of the fulgurite ground off and sprinkled over the top. Twice-burned ashes, a hair from his head, and a thin layer of oil is poured over it. He opens the lacquered wooden box at the back and pulls out a small gold-plated knife which he'd scratched runes into—his sons' names, Váli on one side and Narfi on the other—and lights a match, bringing his breath down to a slow, steady rhythm. When the match falls into the bowl it flares in a blaze of heat.

_“Hela, dóttir mín, höfðingi hinna dauðu. Heyr kvein mitt til þín í nótt eins og hvert annað. Látum sorg mín og ást fyrir bræðrum yðar vera þekkt til þeirra, en meira en nokkuð eftirsjá mín og beiðni um fyrirgefningu. Vinsamlegast, kæru, horfa yfir þeim. Vernda þá og halda þeim ánægðum. Vinsamlegast hafa miskunn á mér, þýddi ég aldrei þig eða einhver af börnum skaða minn. Ég mun hefna þér, ég sver á líf mitt, en það er einskis virði í samanburði við þig. Þú ert unnusti minn, hvað sem kann að koma. Fyrirgefðu mér fyrir skrímsli er ég. Og fyrirgefið mér fyrir skrímsli sem ég mun verða.”_

The same words he speaks every night. He uses the knife to reopen the same cut on his ankle he has every day since his arrival on Midgard, collecting the spilled blood on its tip, and letting the beads spill into the flames.

_“Ástin mín - eftirsjá minn - skuldir minn - eið minn.”_

The blaze ends abruptly with a hiss (and it always sounds like “faðir minn,” but he knows better), and the smoke is almost odorless. He tips the bowl to its side and the bones roll out, dry and cool. He lays the remaining items in their places and sits for a moment, eyes closed.

Breaths in.

Stands, slowly, rolling each vertebra into place one at a time.

Breathes out.

Stretches, drawing as much tension out of his back as he can.

Breathes in.

Draws the knife across his forearm, adding another deep tally to his count and the smell of iron to the air.

Breathes out.

Spins, and drives the blade up to the hilt into the wall.

Stands, forehead pressed against the cold paint, hand still gripped tightly around the handle with the inlaid crystals driving into his flesh, and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are probably going to be a few shorter chapters like this, because it fits the flow of the story better. I'll do my best to pair them with longer chapters, though.


	4. Cold

The next morning finds him hanging by his knees from a tree limb in meditation.

“Sir! You are not permitted to climb trees within the park!” A horse snorts. He opens his eyes (not that it changes anything, but it's the thought that counts) and winces as the feeling he'd been trying to hold back creeps into his peripheral.

“Sir, please come down!”

Aw, how sweet. He said please. He keeps hanging upside down.

“Sir, if you do not exit the tree I will be forced to alert the Parks Enforcement Patrol.”

How does one 'exit' a tree? He is not in the tree, he is hanging from the tree. Idiot mortal.

“Sir, this is your last warning!”

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice cuts in, “what seems to be the problem, officer?”

“This man refuses to come down from the tree, even though it is against park rules.”

A scuff of feet against dirt (a hoof paws at the ground behind them, irrelevant data) and a knock on the tree. “Serrure get down, you impertinent fly-bitten lout!”

He grips the branch he's hanging from with his hands, kicks off and arches through the air to land, rolling his weight through his palms and swinging his legs over to land gracefully on his feet. Turning toward the voice he picks up his cane from where it leans against the tree. “Very good, but much have you still to learn my young Padawan.” He walks brazenly away.

After a few seconds he hears footsteps behind him, running. “Hey, you can't just walk away from a guy after doing crazy blind acrobatics and then quoting Yoda!”

He glances to the man with a raised eyebrow. “And yet it seems I just did.”

“Lokiiiii...” he whines.

He stops and spins on his heel to face him. It's really not a good time. “What do you want, Stark?”

“Hmm...” His foot taps a few times and he can hear the rustle of hair as he runs his hand through it. “Well, for starters, how the hell you did that, and secondly where on Earth did you see Star Wars?”

“Thousands of years of training and practice, and on my couch,” he snaps, walking again.

The arrogant mortal follows him, naturally. “Woah, somebody's tetchy today. What's wrong, Donder, someone take your horns?”

He clenches his fists and steps abruptly into the other man's space, snarling. “Do not speak of that which you do not know, you insolent fool.” He takes off in the other direction. Killing an Avenger is unwise, he tells himself, as he has no wish to go into hiding yet.

“Loki.” More steps behind him and honestly, does the man have so little instinct toward self-preservation? “Loki!”

Stark falls in step with him. “Look, I didn't mean it. I'm an asshole and don't know when to stop, ask anyone. I'm pretty sure I've pissed off at least half the nation and a good number of world leaders just by existing. I didn't mean it.” A light rustle of fabric, probably fiddling with his clothes or something. “Come on, I'm just awful at being a decent person sometimes. I've got no filter, things just come out.”

“Whether or not you filter them has no impact on the fact that you still think and mean them.”

“But I don't, though. I just lash out at people on instinct. My inter-personal skills are shit.”

“Why don't you just go run and tell the Director I'm here so you can get your brownie points and I can get a few moments peace before they make me wish for death again, hm? I'm sick of whatever game you're playing.” He quickens his pace.

“Why would I be playing a–? Look, if I were going to turn you in I would have done it by now. Unless you go on some murder spree I've got no reason to turn you in, and I'm actually sort of opposed to the idea seeing as it involves torture.”

He trips over a rock he somehow missed and manages to catch himself, swearing under his breath.

“Dude, if you want to, feel free to grab my arm or whatever. I don't mind.”

He scowls back. “I'm not some toddling infant, Stark. I don't need your aid.”

“I never said you did. But nothing's wrong with letting someone help you anyway. It's your choice, I'm just saying I don't mind.”

He doesn't take his arm (even though a part of him wants to, being guided in infinitely easier than the constant anxiety of walking in complete darkness but another part is darker still and says _no_ ) and they walk in silence for some time.

“Why do you insist on following me? I am of no use to you.”

Stark's shoes scuff at the ground a bit. “Maybe not. But you're interesting. I threatened you in jeans and a t-shirt and you didn't just vaporize me with your light saber of death, and even managed to keep step with my jackassery. There aren't many people who can do that.”

It's not the answer he expected. “Then what would you have me do, if not ignore you?”

“Dunno. Talk or something? There's a serious lack of intelligent people in the world and I get bored.”

Heh. He should have seen that coming. “So I am some plaything, then? To alleviate your selfish needs?”

“No, not like– dammit, you can't read too far into my choice of words, that's not fair. You're the language guy, I'm the mathy-sciency guy. You've got an unfair advantage. Look. You're clever, I like talking to clever people. Okay, yeah, I guess that sounds selfish if you want to take it that way, but it's not meant to be. Isn't that how people usually get to know each other? Talking? Not that I'm a great role model for interpersonal relationships, I'm more the guy who people learn  _not_ to be like, I mean half the time I'm in public I'm drunk off my ass so I don't have to think about the fact that three-quarters of the people around me are idiots who only care about either my money or getting into my bed–“

“Stark,” he interrupts.

“Yeah?”

“You ramble when you're uncomfortable.”

“Oh.”

He nearly twists his ankle when there's a sudden dip in the path, and he catches himself on Stark's arm. When they start walking again, he doesn't let go. Breathes in, out, tries to hold back the cold. “I have no particular talent for social matters either, other than those required by royalty. I fail to understand why you care to speak with one who would see your home and people burned. It is a poor tactic for a warrior, unless they are attempting to gain information.”

“Well, first off I'm not a warrior. Secondly, yeah, I want info. But not the kind to use against you or anything, it's just kind of hard to talk to someone and not talk about anything. I mean, I guess we can discuss the weather but that's like three words and then it goes downhill from there. Watch out, crazy kids running around.”

“Then what would you have us discuss?”

Tony shrugs. “I don't know. I'd ask questions or something but from what I'm getting you're sort of a private person and you've already told me a bit about yourself. I mean, I guess you can ask me stuff? A lot of it's already in the papers, but hey. Surprise me. Ask me anything.”

Okay... if the man wants to offer information so badly, perhaps he can gain something from it. “The device in your chest.”

He can feel the man tense. “Okay, maybe not that anything. We're not quite friendly enough for that one yet.”

“I was not aware we were friends, Stark.”

He chuckles. “You threw me out a window, buddy, Maybe not friends, but we've certainly got the history. But seriously, arc reactor comes later. Preferably when I'm really, really drunk.”

Arc reactor. The words could be of use, he'll have to look them up when he returns home.

“Then how, might I ask, did you become the Iron Man?”

Stark doesn't relax. “Also off-limits. Tell you what, since we've both got screwy pasts, how 'bout we limit the conversation to after I ran into you at the park?”

“You have a very odd definition of 'anything', Stark.”

“Shut up.”

His grip on the cane tightens. “I did, for months, I do not care to again. Fine then. What is it that your company does?”

“Oh, that one I can definitely answer.” The tension drains from his arm a bit as he starts talking, a mile a minute, in a haughty tone. It's a speech he's given often judging from the way he speaks it. “So, right now our main focus in in the clean energy industry. We're kind of the only name right now, what with the arc reactor technology and all. That tower you decided to throw me out of? The entire thing's powered by one, and it'll keep running full power for at least a year. Almost no waste, and when the cell is used up it only takes a little of this one kind of element and a bit of electricity to recharge. It's super-sustainable, and is gonna change the energy business forever. No more burning coal or atomic waste, and with a little time we can run all our transportation off them as well, just charge up electric cars and be on our way. Of course, that's just the main focus.

“We've got the StarkPhones too, which are newer but easily catching up to Android and iOS based tech, and tons of other computer hardware though a lot of that stays internal for the time being or is pretty exclusive to the very upper classes, because it's not cheap to produce. We're doing some work in third-world countries at the moment, helping to get the basic amenities, food, shelter, water, and the like, to places where they don't have them. Some of the bio-med interns are on the verge of discovering a viable preventative vaccination against AIDS, although I'm not sure they realize how close they are, and I've got another team of scientists working on cancer research. Also tons of material engineering, genetics research, a team of aerospace engineers designing a high-speed rocket that'll be able to take astronauts to Mars safely... you name it, we're probably working on it.”

“So what exactly do _you_ do, then?” Tell him something useful already.

“Me? Well, I used to be CEO but that was all just boring paperwork so that's Pepper's job now. I mainly oversee the research and production from a scientific viewpoint, develop my own tech, that sort of thing. And get stuck doing press conferences and going to board meetings. Which are gross. Plus, you know, harass Fury, fly around saving the world. Or just fly around. It's fun. What about you? What have you ended up doing for a living?”

Useless. “I thought you'd decided that I was busy building a lair. Villainous lairs take an awful lot of time and effort, you know.”

Stark laughs and pats the hand on his arm. “Of course they do, Blitzen. So are you any good at math and science, or are you just sort of an Edgar Allen Poe guy?”

That's a fair enough question, one that doesn't reveal an overly large amount. Not that Stark's answer was particularly helpful, but he has more to go by and words that could prove useful. “I have studied a small amount of your Midgardian mathematics, read a few books, but it is different from what we were taught as children and I was only able to find a few books in braille. On Asgard the most we were required to learn was basic arithmetic, the sort of things one would need to plan war strategies.” They turn onto a gravel path and their footsteps crunch loudly.

“How far'd you get?”

“Only two or three books in. Multivariate calculus, I believe.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” the man stops and turns to him, “you went from like, addition, subraction, multiplication, and division to multivariate calculus in two or three textbooks?”

It was hardly a difficult task, he's not so sure why the man sounds surprised. “Yes?”

“Okay then, smarty pants, if W is the volume defined by x2 + y2 + z2 ≤ 1 and y ≤ x, then what is the flux of (x3 – 3x, y3 + xy, z3 – xz) out of W?”

He tilts his head, brows furrowed in thought. After a moment, he responds. “Negative four pi over five.”

“Oh, god,” Stark replies, and he can hear him run a hand through his hair, “you have no idea how much I want to pick your brain apart right now. How the hell did you even do that?”

He looks at him, confused and a bit irritated, and reinforces his mental walls, don't let it get in. “It's just an abstraction of thought, a cousin to magic. A different way of understanding the universe. A way for numbers to explain idea as language uses letters or sounds.”

The man seems at a loss for words and the gravel crackles a bit as he shifts his weight. “Where the hell have you been all my life,” he ends up muttering.

“I'm not sure wh–“ he's inturrupted.

_“Oh!”_

_“What,_ you imbici–“

“You're coming back to the tower with me.” He says it like it's already been decided, and he can feel him stand a bit straighter.

He raises a mocking eyebrow. “Now why on Muspellheim would I do that, mortal?”

“Because you're brilliant,” he states assuredly, “and if you're that smart, then you're bored. And if you're bored then you're either going to start blowing shit up or you're going to find something interesting to do.”

“Your innuendos are pathetic.” He rolls his eyes.

Stark hits him in the arm. “Not like that you dirty-minded idiot. I'm way more than interesting, trust me. No, there's _science_ to do!”

“And just what makes you think that I will willingly walk into the building where my greatest enemies reside? Your brain is addled.”

He sighs at him in exasperation. “Honestly, do you think I don't have back ways in and out of my buildings? There are more secret doors than even the builders know about.”

“And what's to stop me from using the opportunity to bring down the Avengers from inside their own home?” He keeps building his mental walls, it can't get to him again.

“Well for starters, the fact that you just pointed it out. I've got security protocols in place anyway, and I know you're stalling. Come on, Sour Patch.”

He pulls his arm away sharply and snarls as he feels the coldness seeping in. “I have no wish to follow you.”

“Woah, woah buddy. No harm meant.”

Of course not. Why would anyone invite their crippled enemy into their house of heroes to _harm_  them? That would be completely absurd and cold and ice and _remember what they did to you._ He's no ignorant apprentice, he's long since learned the ways of the stone-hearted. His lips turn up into a dangerous smile. “Perhaps you would do well to remember who it is you are dealing with, mortal. Powers or not I could still snap your neck without so much as a thought. Do not dare to think me above it, I have long since ceased trying to wash my hands of others' blood and have no qualms with dipping them back in again.”

A double crunch of gravel as the wretch steps back. “Wow, okay, not really expecting the mood swings here, my bad. I'm just gonna... y'know... back off now. Would you rather me show you back or leave?”

“Tell me where we are, then leave.” Icy claws sink slowly through his defenses.

“Yep, gotcha, okay. East side of Bethesda Fountain, Terrace Drive facing the Mall. Um, see you around, I guess?” Footsteps receded from gravel to dirt, beats fading into the distance.

Icy tendrils seep through the cracks, the weak spots in his walls bending under the pressure. He makes it to the edge of the park and hails a cab, having it take him back to his apartment, tips double for the speed. The elevator is cold, so cold, and when he finally manages to unlock his door (his hands shake and drop the key once) and slam it shut behind him, he collapses on the floor with a whine.

The frost spreads through his mind and _no no no no not again let him go..._

Please, no, not again _let him go let him go..._

He doubles over, tearing at his hair and trying to drag himself across the floor as it coalesces into glacier, slowly cleaving his mind open.

Throws up wall after wall, trying to keep it out, but his mind has already been weakening and he's not strong enough and it only serves to make it more painful as each barricade is shattered.

Claws at the wall, hauls himself up enough to tear the cold knife out and falls back, trembling and forcing back a giggle.

Drags himself to the gas fireplace and starts it, tearing back a panel of glass to hold the dagger over the flame. Carves another ragged gash in his right leg with the hot blade and screams.

It's not enough, not enough to burn the ice out of him.

The glamor is held on with a fraying thread and he lets it sever itself, moans as the heat from the blaze sears at the heinous monster he is, has become, was always fated to be.

_no, no, please, no_

Icicles in his head turn to cardice lances so cold they ignite, the fog-smoke from its sublimation turning his vision white.

The blade rings as it falls to the tile floor, his body gives out, collapses. The pain doesn't even register over the white noise.

The agony mounts until he can no longer scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.
> 
>  
> 
> (also, I haven't gotten that far in university math yet, so the equation is from here: http://math.rice.edu/~klm1/teaching/examfinalsols03.pdf)


	5. Discussion

The next morning, six-thirty or so, finds him staring blankly into an untouched mug of tea. His file of case notes is pushed to the wall side of the table, untouched, and he's wearing the same clothes as the day before. He hadn't showered when he woke, his hair left disheveled and he can feel the bags under his eyes but he doesn't care. He just needed to get away from the apartment. He eventually pushes the tea away, tossing his sunglasses beside the mug, and drops his head into his arms murmuring to himself.

_Sumir segja að heimurinn muni enda í eldi,_  
 _Sumir segja á ís._

A familiar voice interrupts him. “Hey, Dasher, you okay?

He turns his head toward him with a pained and weary attempt at a smile, finishing the verse.

_Frá því sem ég hef smakkað af löngun,_  
 _Ég held með þeim sem greiða eldinn._

“Dude, you look like shit.”

“Good morning to you as well.” He sighs, and pushes himself up to lean his head in his hand.

The floorboards creak as Stark shifts uncomfortably. “Look, about yesterday. I shouldn't have pushed, I tend to go overboard without realizing it.”

He rubs at the bridge of his nose. “No, it's fine, you were not to be faulted. It has been a... burdensome week.”

“Still, I was kind of an ass.”

“It is forgotten.” He slides his fingers over the table, finding his tea and sunglasses, and pulls them back to his side of the table with the groaning scrape of ceramic on wood before gesturing to the other chair. “You are welcome to sit, if you wish.”

“You sure?”

He slides his sunglasses back on. “I would not have offered were I not. It is your decision.”

A scratch as one of the metal chair legs missing a pad digs into the wooden floor and the knock of porcelain on stone. “What happened?”

He laughs brokenly. “Something I much wish to forget.”

A spoon clinks against the porcelain mug. “I get that. But I'm Iron Man, so let me know if I need to go blast something.”

“I would prefer that you not destroy my mind, at least for the moment.”

The clinking stops. “Loki, you look like I did when I got beat up by Vanko and had life-threatening palladium poisoning. You're covered in bruises, look like death warmed over, and you've got a nice gash on your jaw. There's no way in hell that was just your mind.”

He presses a hand to his cheek and winces. “I don't remember it. It must have happened when I greyed-out.”

“When you–‽ What the hell, Loki?”

He shrugs, feigning apathy. “I don't really know. Or remember a lot of it.”

“That's not– Are you alright?”

“For the time being, yes. It shouldn't happen again for another month or so.” He takes a long drag of his tea, which is miraculously still warm.

He goes quiet. “This's happened before?”

“Six times, I believe.” He knows, actually. Six uneven cauterized gashes in his leg, crossing over one another. Not neat like the tallies on his arms.

“Look, I'm not going to ask if you don't want to talk about it. I get it. But if you do, or you need help, let me know.”

He ducks his head in a slight bow, and as a means to hide the shame that wells up in his chest. “You have my thanks.”

They sit in silence, drinking their tea and coffee and he loses himself in thought.

When his mug is empty ten or fifteen minutes later, Tony speaks.

“So what'cha doing today?”

He tips the mug up, finishing the last few drops. “I'm not sure. Avoiding my apartment primarily, I've stepped on enough glass for the time being. Why do you ask?”

The table tilts slightly as the man leans on it. “You look like you could use something to get your mind off things, though you should probably get cleaned up first. Not saying you come to the labs or anything, I can see why you'd be reluctant about that one, but this is New York City so I'm sure there's something to do.

The mug clacks against the chessboard and he takes a moment to consider the offer. “I suppose that would be acceptable. I will have to stop at my apartment, first.”

“That's cool. Want me to call you a cab? I'm assuming you don't want me knowing where you live, which is fine.”

He pauses. “Why haven't you alerted Fury or the Avengers to my presence here?”

It takes a minute for Stark to switch gears. “I mean, the way I see it you've paid your time and you're not hurting anything so there's no reason for me to. They'd just send you back to Asgard, which I'm guessing would end badly, and I'm not exactly a big fan of your guys' justice system from what little I know. Unless you go criminal on us then in my books you're clear.”

“Then it's your choice,” he says with a nod.

The second shift in conversation catches Stark off-guard again. “What's my choice?”

“Whether or not you go to my apartment.” He needs to counter the constant anger and distrust that's been clawing at his sanity. If Stark wants to find him badly enough he has no doubt he can, considering the technology at his disposal, and a show of trust will most likely be to his benefit.

“Wait, are you serious? I mean, I totally want to see it because hello, you're living in a freaking apartment, but that seems a bit out of character.”

“If you truly harbor no ill will towards me then there is no reason to hide it from you. Though I feel obligated to warn you that it is rather... out of sorts. As I said, I have not cleaned yet.”

“How far is it?”

“Other side of town, in Hell's Kitchen.” He unfolds his cane and gathers his things.

The other chair scrapes back as the man stands. “Hell's Kitchen, isn't that Daredevil's territory? The only time I've been over there recently is when I went with you, before that the Kingpin was still running the place.”

“From what I understand it's significantly improved under the Devil's watch.” He stands as well and they carry their dishes back to the counter. He pulls out his smart phone (an iPhone, and Stark makes his thoughts on the subject clear) to call for a taxi, and they wait on the sidewalk by the door.

“But seriously, an iPhone? Why would you do that?” he whines.

He raises an eyebrow with a snort. “I purchased it just before the StarkPhones were released and it was the most accessible for me on the market at the time. We're not all made of money, you know.”

There's a pause. “You can't see it but I'm pouting, Prancer. I'm hurt. You hurt me.”

“You have my greatest apologies,” he responds sarcastically.

“Still pouting.”

The taxi arrives and Tony slides in first, guiding him to the door.

“What's in the folder?” is the first thing he asks as they pull away.

He holds it up, showing Stark the 'Confidential' stamp on the front. “Can't tell you.”

“Ooh, secret business. Now I'm curious.”

“Even if you were to see the pages,” he rolls his eyes, “they're written in braille.”

“Dammit.”

“What did you expect, it's not like I can really read ink. It's all flat. And even if it wasn't braille it's written in what Midgardians call Old Norse, or the Æsir evolution of it. Most similar to Icelandic in your modern world.”

Stark laughs. “You're only making me more curious, you know. What's it sound like, your language?”

_“Ó hvar er þráður sem bindur mig,_  
 _Rödd sem kallar mig aftur–_  
 _Hvar er ást sem finnur mig_  
 _Og hvað er rót sem ég skortir.”_

“That's pretty cool.”

“Your language evolved largely from our own, or variations of it. French, as well, it was the language of the aristocracy for a time. If you compare the words you would recognize quite a few of them.”

“Say something else!”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. But this is the last time, I am not here for your enjoyment.”

_“Ég velti því ef það er sárt að lifa –_  
 _Og ef þeir verða að reyna –_  
 _Og hvort – þeir gætu valið á milli –_  
 _Þeir myndu ekki velja að deyja.”_

“So what are you actually saying?”

“Poems. Midgardian, actually. Earlier was Robert Frost, then Bruce Coville and Emily Dickinson.”

“So you've translated and memorized Earth poems? You're such a nerd. It's awesome,” he chuckles.

The cab stops and he pays before leading Stark to the door. As always, keys, cane, and coat get hung on their respective hooks, shoes go to the right of the door, and the case files he leaves on the counter by the refrigerator.

Two soft thuds as Stark drops his shoes (presumably beside his) and then a creak as he closes the door. “This place is scarily clean. What do you do, spend all your free time with a feather duster?”

“Yes, obviously.” He scoffs. “Of course not, but it's easiest to keep everything in its place so I can find it. Don't start moving tables or I swear to Vallhalla I will kill you in your sleep.”

“You really shouldn't give me ideas.”

He shoots him a look. “Don't. Or I will end you.” A finger across his throat in a blatant threat. “I'm going to get a quick shower and change, make yourself comfortable. I'd recommend you not go into the living room without your shoes on, or at all. There's broken glass on the floor.”

He traces the wall to his bedroom and locks the door behind him, running his fingers over the braille tags on his clothes to find a matching set and leaving them on the bed alongside his glasses. He showers quickly, hissing as the warm water and shampoo get into his cuts, and rinsing the remnants of blood out of his hair and from beneath his nails. Admittedly, now that he thinks about it, he likely did look pretty horrific. He should probably apologize to the girl working at the shop that morning. He's thankful that he cut his hair short again, the length it had been before his fall, as it makes washing it an awful lot faster. He steps out and towels dry, dressing and hanging his sunglasses on his collar before blow drying and slicking back his hair.

When he unlocks the door with a click and the sound of rustling pages stops.

“Ah, Loki, just out of curiosity, why is there a good six inch gash in your wall?”

He tries to tuck an errant lock back into place, scowling. “Night before last. I haven't fixed it yet.” He pulls on a pair of socks and plucks a rose out of a vase on the window, pricking his finger on a thorn before trying to avoid the fireplace as he walks to the small table in the corner.

“Okay, then... how do you read this, anyway?” More rustling pages, “I can't even feel a difference in the letters.”

He drops the flower into the graphite bowl, pouring a small amount of the oil over it, and smears the blood from his finger onto the petals.

“It takes a bit of practice. It's quite a necessary skill, though.” He pulls a match from the box, lights it with a scrape, and drops it into the bowl where a whoosh tells him it's caught flame. Stark, from what he can tell, jumps and curses. He holds out a finger to tell him to wait.

_“Hela, dóttir mín, fyrirgefðu skortur minn á bæn í gærkvöldi. Ég er sannarlega leitt. Ást mín til þín og bræður þínir. Halda þeim öruggum þar til ég hitti þig þar.”_

_“Ástin mín - eftirsjá minn - skuldir minn - eið minn.”_

The flames leap then die, leaving the bowl empty.

“I thought you said you were all out of creepy magic voodoo stuff!”

He sucks his finger for a second, cleaning the remaining blood. “That was hardly magic, I drew on no power of my own. Neither galdrar nor seiðr, nor any other manipulation of Tilveru.”

“Then what was it?”

The knife is still cold in his hand and it's unpleasant. He wants only warmth, heat, fire after last night. He puts it back in its box and replaces the lid. “A sacrifice to the dead.”

“What, like, the people you killed?”

He laughs, an off-balance thing. “You could say that.” And he had, hadn't he? Their only crime was him. Being his was the curse of every one of his children. He'd thought the boys had been safe, with Sigyn, she was kind and a good mother, but he should have known better. He killed his own children.

Their screams still echo in his ears every waking moment, the terror in their eyes forever burned into his own blind ones. The prophecies had said that Sigyn would stay with him, to catch what venom she could, but what mother could bear to aid the one who caused her children's death?

Chilling screams of his boys, cool gazes of the guards unmoved by the sight, cold looks from his once-family, freezing stone and iron on his bare skin, and ice taking hold in his soul even more than his mind. Everything so cold, even on his escape the snow had buffeted around and stung like needles everywhere it hit.

There's a voice somewhere in his peripheral.

“-ki. Loki!”

He jumps, looking up toward the source.

“You alright? You kind of zoned out on me there. I said something dumb again, didn't I?”

Ah. Right. They'd been speaking. With a shake of his head, he turns away. “It's of no consequence. I'm fine.”

The response is skeptical. “You're shaking. Asgard must have a different definition of 'fine' that includes 'hell fucking no I'm not alright, you dolt.' Does it? Because that doesn't look like alright to me.”

“It's cold.” Picking his way carefully across the room and brushing fingers over the back of the couch to gauge his position, he finds the closet by the door and digs around for a few moments before reappearing with a charcoal grey coat. The wool doesn't quite brush his knee, and he finds himself wishing for his old leathers as he pulls it on over his sweater. At least there's a scarf that will match somewhere on the top shelf… aha. There should be a pair of grey sneakers somewhere to the back left, and they don't take long to find since they feel different from his others. He's got a general idea of what they must look like between touch and memory of the fleeing Midgardians, but it's probably wrong.

Once he's finished tying them and has found his phone and cane he leads Stark outside and locks the door behind them, then pushes his gloved hands deeply into the warm pockets of his coat.

“It's early autumn, not the middle of winter for pete's sake. I thought you were supposed to be all godly and resilient.”

“I care not for what you think on the matter, as I am cold.”

Keyes jingled as the man tossed them between his hands. “Alright then, mister snippy, got a plan for where we're going or are we just gonna stand here looking beautiful for passersby?”

Loki snorts. “I don't see anyone else beautiful here other than myself.”

“Hate to break it to you, buddy, but I think it was my stunning good looks that blinded you.”

“I sincerely doubt that. In fact, I am grateful that I cannot see such a sorry face as yours.”

With a scoff, Stark hits his arm. “That hurts, buddy. That really hurts.”

“My sincerest apologizes for your unfortunate condition. Now, if we would return to the matter at hand?”

“Oh, yeah, right. What sort of stuff do you even do, anyway? Can I see your lair?”

He rolls his eyes in exasperation, trying to warm up his hands in his pockets, but gives up and rubs them together instead. It doesn't really work, but it's better than nothing. “What I would assume most do. Work, read, study, practice violin, go for walks in the park, go out to eat, shop…”

“ _You_  go shopping.”

“No, I sit on the roof while bread falls from the sky. Of course I go shopping, you imbecile, and I need to go today as it so happens, unless I wish to have rice again for the third day in a row.” There's a list in his pocket, printed in braille on one side and written in neat script on the other, and he hands it to the him.

After a pause, in which Loki assumes he's is reading over the list, he speaks. “What's the written part for? Isn't that sort of useless for you?”

“Honestly, Stark,” he sighs, “for a supposed genius, you are the most dim-witted man I've ever had the misfortune to speak with. It's not the easiest task in the world to go to a store and figure out which box is cheerios and which is that awful chemically imposter.”

The list brushes against his hand and he takes it, folding the paper carefully to avoid affecting the letters.

“Everything is chemicals. Saying something tastes like chemicals is saying that it tastes. And are you insulting fruit loops? They're like little rainbows of happiness.”

“If your definition of happiness involves a slow and diseased death, then yes, they are. Are we going to go and actually do something productive, or just stand here prattling like old hags?” Three deft motions and a corresponding number of clicks has his cane unfolded, and he heads off to the right toward the elevator. Scuffing steps tell him that the idiot mortal is following.

“This is so not how I planned my morning to go.”

That, he has to agree with, although he doesn't respond as his decent mood slips. It's not really worth it, as it should be fairly obvious, and it isn't something he wants to dwell on overly much.

Seeming to sense the change, he pats his arm. “Hey, look at it this way. At least you're up and showered. I count that as a plus.”

One smooth movement has Stark pinned to the wall by his throat as he spins, the cane whips out, and in a swirl of black hair and grey wool the elevator is back parallel in front of him again. The pressure on the cane isn't enough to truly injure the man, but judging from the stilted breath is at least inconveniencing.

“Do not presume to think,” he growls low, “that we are in any way familiar enough with each other for you to speak as such to me. There is not a creature in the realms who may. Consider this a most merciful warning, as next time you will find your mouth sewn shut.”

The reply is a strangled sound, but resembles agreement enough for the cane to drop as the elevator opens with a ding. Said cane used to get caught in the crack between elevator and floor, but he's learned to follow the noise instead and check the edge of the door by touch instead. Footsteps follow his a moment after.

“Holy shit, man, I can't even start to understand what goes on in your head.”

“Which is why you're a mortal,” Loki retorts, “and I am a god.”

“Yeah, from how I understand it the gods aren't doing much better on that front. Can we please agree not to cause Tony bodily harm when he's actually trying to be a decent person? I mean, preferably never, but considering the fact that I was born an asshole you should be proud of me for making such a huge effort to be nice.”

“Thank you so very much,” he responds drily, “I don't know how I'll ever repay you.”

“Well, like I said, not killing me would be a great start.”

The elevator buttons are all marked in braille, which is a small mercy in a world of confusing inputs and even more so the lack thereof. He presses the one marked for the ground floor and leans back against the wall.

“I am not some toy to be coddled, Stark, nor a charity project to offset the ghosts in your mind. And don't give me that look.”

He scoffs. “You can't see, how would you know if I was giving you a look?”

“I don't need to see it to know it's there. It's obvious enough that you're sleep deprived from your actions alone, and you start at noises that none else would think twice about. Your past has caught up with you, has it not?”

There's a beat of uncomfortable silence on the other man's end.

“I'm fine, asshole. Don't turn this around on me when you're the one with the issues.”

“You are a terrible liar, Stark. It's embarrassing.”

He shifts nervously, the movement carried to Loki's peripheral a few moments before the temperature changes slightly and the doors open on the ground floor.

“Let's just go to the store, or whatever,” is the curt reply.

Loki doesn't fold his cane again. He knows that he's probably overreacting, it's not as if the man had any ill-intent, but the ice is still melting and leaving the runoff to chill his veins. It's an uncomfortable walk to the grocery market, a tense silence between them that feels like a tripwire to whoever breaks it. He avoids taking Stark's arm, opting to cross streets by practiced listening instead of accepting aid. Once or twice he considers just stepping out when he knows a car is coming, but it wouldn't do much good thanks to his physiology. All that would happen is bent metal and potential injury to the passengers.

Damn his godhood.

A few blocks of dragging steps later, Stark speaks.

“Yeah.”

Loki glances back in his general direction. “I'm sorry?”

“Yeah, it fucked with my head.” A scuff, and the clatter of a rock kicked across cement. “After you were hauled off to hang with the guardians of asses, my life's been a little more screwy than it was before. And it was pretty screwy already.”

He doesn't reply, but the silence that follows isn't quite so uncomfortable.

Three blocks and a rather rude couple later (to whom he makes quite clear what he thinks of them while Stark tries not to laugh) they reach the store. Familiar bells knock against the glass door when he pulls it open and holds it for the other man. A whirring fan over the door makes the already cold air seep deeper into his bones. Alice, the girl who usually helps him with his shopping, shouts a greeting and asks if he needs help. He shakes his head and feels for the wire grid of a shopping cart.

“Stark, have you ever actually entered a store to buy food for yourself?”

“What do you think I have staff for? Seriously, I doubt you ever did either when you were all prince-of-the-world.”

The first cart has a wheel that tends too much toward the right so he pulls another out and pushes it towards the man. A loud rattle tells him he caught it, although a bit off-guard. Mortals.

“I spent many afternoons at the bazaar, actually.” And he had. The golden sunlight cast its bright warm rays across a rainbow of cloth tents, and fresh fruit seemed to shine with it. It was always a cacophony of noise and color—shouting children chasing a hound, fowl clucking and pecking at their cages, merchants peddling their wares while a baker inevitably yelled in the background and tried to give chase to a kid thief weaving their way through the crowd. Cooking meats sent their juicy scent across the rows, a candy-maker gave youngsters a show and traded a handful treats for a coin. There were the poorer, too, huddled along the paths begging for just a few copper crow, please. Sometimes when he had the free time he'd sneak a few shards of a healing stone to toss to the less healthy folk.

“Wow, I think that's the first actual smile I've seen since you were with the kids. Is 'the bazaar' some euphemism I'm missing?”

That earns the man a solid whack with his cane. “Your mind is filthy.”

“I try.”

Loki sighs. “The bazaar is exactly what it sounds like. All the farmers and merchants gather at midweek to sell their goods. I used to go primarily for spell ingredients and such, but there was often music and dancing and always fresh food. Not the sort you have here, Asgard is another realm and as such has entirely different crops than Earth does, but one of the bakers also made a fantastic drink something like one of your milkshakes mixed with an array of spices and a touch of alcohol. It was always good fun.”

“So you can buy spiked smoothies with your loaf of bread?” The laugh is followed by a rattling crash. “Fucking he-” he switches gears seeing the look on Loki's face, “-ck, how are you supposed to turn one of these things?”

With a roll of his eyes he feels for the cart and pulls it back away from the shelves the man had crashed it into. “I would recommend using your hands to do so, or do you rely on that metal contraption so much that you aren't strong enough to turn a wheeled basket?” There's a noise of protest but he ignores it in favor of running fingers across the much-worn shelves to count aisles. “This way. The first section should all be down here.”

A rustle of paper as Stark pulls the list out of his pocket (crumpled, from the sound of it, which is incredibly irritating since he relies on touch to read it) along with the clack of what sound like batteries. Triple-A's from the pitch.

“Fresh organic pasta, ooh, mister fancy-pants, are we?”

“Just because your senses are so dull that you cannot taste the disgusting things your meddling has done to food does not mean mine are. I prefer not to retch when I sit down to supper.”  
“I'll try not to take offense to that, but only because you're always an asshole anyway. Tortellini, rotini, angel hair—that seems rude, to kill an angel and just use the hair, and also a bit disgusting—egg noodles, polenta—who the hell actually eats polenta, you're weird—qui-what, now?”

“Quinoa. That general direction,” he points to a shelf on the left, “and polenta is good. Stop harassing me because I have decent tastes.”

“Never.”

Cardboard scrapes over metal as he pulls the box out from what must be the back from the sounds of it, and it lands in the cart with a thud. Thank whatever powers he doesn't believe in that the other boxes aren't tossed so haphazardly, because if he ends up with a pile of crushed food there will be serious regret on a certain mortal's side.

Loki brushes his fingers lightly over the jars on the near shelf. Too big, too big, too narrow, who in Valhalla put a can with the jars of pasta sauce? Idiots. It's a smaller one, the weirdly sized tomato paste, which means it goest three sections over… and one of the larger cans has been knocked over as well. Both clack against the shelf as their weight is redistributed. Back to the actual sauces, he tests the varying shapes to find the one he's looking for.

“Stark.” He taps on the shelf in front of the jar and the metal echoes dully. “White or red?”

“Red.”

Next one to the left, then. The cart rattles again when the glass is set in the front of the basket.

“Two aisles over has cereal and beverages, correct?”

A few moments pass while footsteps grow further away before returning.

“Yep. Come on, then, Prancer, get a move on!” The rattle of the cart starts up again and he follows it. “For the record, you have the weirdest grocery list ever.”

They reach the next aisle and Loki goes back to running his hands over the shelves searching for what he can find by touch.

“Seriously, you don't have anything even remotely exciting on here, and is it actually possible to like Grape Nuts? I mean, ew.”

“Yes, well, while you grow fat and sluggish in your gluttony, I shall maintain my agility.”

“Ooh,” the man lowers his voice to a joking seductive tone “what sort of agility?” Well, at least from the sound of it Stark's still being useful while he's being irritating.

With a sigh, Loki sets down the bag of coffee he'd sniffed. “Must everything be an innuendo with you?”

“The name Tony Stark is synonymous with innuendo, sorry buddy. Even Jarvis has resigned himself to the fact.”

Mmm, this one smells nice. Good for mornings when there's not time to stop at the coffee shop before work. “Jarvis?”

“Oh, Loki, Loki, Loki… you're in for the treat of your life if you ever decide science paradise is in your future. I can't even imagine how you two would get along, but it;ll probably be hilarious.”

A kid runs by, sudden and close enough to spook him, but he recovers quickly and instinctively focuses more on hearing his surroundings. The rest of the things on the list for this aisle aren't ones distinguishable by sight, so he leans against the shelf behind him and drums a beat on his cane in boredom. A cash register dings in the background, and a splash of something an aisle or two over is explained when the sharp smell of cleaner washes over him, making his throat burn and useless eyes water. He shuts them tightly and covers his nose and mouth with a sleeve to block out what he can.

“Dude, you alright?”

Loki starts again at the unexpected noise, focus on sound dulled in favor of trying to block the stinging in his nose. Suddenly the other end of the row seems extraordinarily inviting. An invitation that he gladly accepts, actually. Blessedly the smell isn't quite so bad here, but he leans forward against the shelf coughing painfully into the rough wool of his elbow. Stark's followed, no surprise as he can't leave well enough alone, and makes a questioning sound.

“Bleach,” he explains, voice annoyingly hoarse from the coughing. “The scent is not a pleasant one.”

“I definitely don't see anyone using bleach nearby. Sure you're okay?”

He gestures vaguely back toward where the cart still waits. “Two- no, three aisles over, I think. _Norns,_ it burns.” Screw wearing glasses for a few minutes, if anyone's uncomfortable with seeing his scars then fine, because his eyes should really stop watering now, please and thank you. It seems a bit unfair that they can still be bothersome even as destroyed as they are.

“Can't smell anything here, but hey, you're the blind guy.”

“Blindness does not make one's senses any stronger, measle, it merely means that we must use the information moreso than you would. And it's not my fault that my senses are stronger than yours. Mortals are so limited in their powers of perception. Would you mind finishing the list? I can go pick out the produce, as I don't need your aid and I assume it's not within your skillset.”

“Sure, no problem. Meet'cha over there, don't start a food fight while I'm gone.”

“Now who's giving who ideas?”

“I'm rolling my eyes, Loki.”

It's really not worth bickering at this point, he's hungry and just wants lunch so the sooner they finish the better. Well, that and the fact that while it's less intense here, the cleaner still smells prevalently here. To the produce it is.

This is something familiar, most similar to how he used to pick food. The smell and feel of each piece of fruit is distinct, and he's quite picky when it comes to freshness. Alice sees him testing the melons and walks over, laughing, to inform him that she set aside the best few for him to chose from and show him where they're stashed. Sure enough, two of the three pass his test and he adds them to a basket she offers. Despite the slight inconvenience of having to carry both it and the cane while searching for a ripe avocado, the weight is comforting. He's in control of this, just a little bit, and doesn't have to rely on someone else to do it for him.

_Isn't it pathetic? How far the not-prince has fallen, that picking out berries in a mortal store is an achievement? He is naught but a cosmic joke, the laughingstock of Yggdrasil._

_You should have kept falling, monster, out there in that void. You deserve to die._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, you thought I would just give you a chapter of fluff?
> 
> The poems Loki recites are a few I'm fond of and felt sort of fit his attitude right now. They are, in the order they appear:  
> Ice and Fire - Robert Frost  
> Song of the Wanderer - Bruce Coville  
> I measure every Grief I meet - Emily Dickinson


	6. Rooftops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an awful person, I know, so feel free to poison my water. Writer's block hit with a vengeance for both this and Burn the Forest, and a month went by of me beating my head against an adamantium wall. However, in the meantime, there was lots of writing in terms of future chapters, a one-shot piece I just have to proof, a tumblr account that i'll post updates to as well as use to keep track of all the writing and art reference material I like to keep around (okay, that one might be slightly selfish, but eh), some art that's almost done… and Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. started, so there's a new bank of intel on Earth-199999 for me to bastardize.

He's gone by the time Stark finishes his adventure through the realm of the grocery store.

It's not the first time he's wound up on the roof of the building, the wind so high up biting his ears and adding another unnecessary layer of cold to the ones already wrapped around him, and he sincerely doubts it will be the last. Climbing to high places like a goat is nothing new. What feels like centuries ago, he would scale the palace roofs in search of a place to be away from the constant commotion of the monarchy, without the squabbling councilmen and fawning maidens who had intelligence less even than that of the Warriors Three. Once upon those times, the view of the stars stretched out above and the towns beneath was breathtaking, and could clear his mind like nothing else. Now the air is acrid, the landscape gone, and the stillness overwhelmed by the constant dissonance of engines and sirens. He sighs. It's just not the same.

Gravel crunches loudly under his feet as he walks closer to the edge, and he kicks a ditch in it absentmindedly. What he wouldn't give to be able to perch up on the topmost spire again… or anywhere high on Asgard, for that matter. Midgard is round, and the horizon falls away not too far off in the distance. When he had stood on the balcony of Stark's stupid little monument to himself and surveyed the destruction of the attack, he'd barely been able to see anything. Back hom- back on Asgard, though, at such a height all was visible from where the Bifrost dropped into the Sea of Space back to Mt. Zanadu, and then out to the White Sands. He misses that, especially in wake of this constant nothingness. Now more than ever, it's a struggle to escape himself.

With a scowl he sits on the edge with his legs hanging over and throws a stone as far as he can. Hopefully it will break a window or hit someone in the head.

Seven months, and he still can't just take care of himself. Still has to rely on _mortals_ for everything. It's so far past degrading that not even his silver tongue can find a word for where he's fallen. He was a prince, for Valhalla's sake! A king! Now he is naught but a blind, lame beggar amongst filthy _vermin,_ who can barely even perform the most menial of tasks. And the wretched _morals_ he's defending, which don't even make any sense.

Why does the court call for the life-long imprisonment of one who has only killed a single man? Or call down their death? Weregild is so much more consistent, with its set fees for each man based on station. Though, he supposes, the muddying of classes here would make such a thing difficult. How can anyone stand to walk in such constant confusion? He may love chaos, thrive off of it, but this is just nonsensical. And by the Norns, have the barbarians no concept of respect?

He throws another stone over the edge. It would serve them right to be hit by it.

Everything is just so _infuriating_  and _confusing_ and _overwhelming_. Months on this archaic rock and he can't even begin to comprehend how the realm works. How it's survived so long with so much internal war and constant bickering. It's worse than the nobles at court.

Loki shouts in frustration, because he can, and because it's all he can. It's not like anyone will hear him over the din. He's insignificant. An outcast. Forgotten.

A few minutes later he hears the door from the stairwell swing open with its soft squeak. The voice that cuts into his thoughts like a knife fresh from the forge is quite the opposite.

“Hey, Vixen, not nice to make a guy buy your groceries for you while you angst on a rooftop like a teenage girl.”

He bristles at the comparison, and snarls back. “It's hardly as though your wallet is incapable of sustaining such a thing. You wouldn't even notice the difference in such meager amounts of coin.”

“Ah, yeah, not the point. Although, did you know that they have these little mini conveyor belts just for the shit in your cart? I so need one of those in my workshop. No clue what I'd do with it, but I need one.”

“Would you cease your childish _prattle?_ I swear to the Norns, I ought to run you through with a blade and toss you from the rooftop like the refuse you are!” His voice rises steadily as he speaks until he's practically shouting, and he climbs to his feet to face the idiotic mortal, ruined eyes blazing in anger. “None have any care for your pathetic attempts to gain attention, you obnoxious, mangy creature!”

Naturally, the fool walks closer, the gravel shifting loudly under his heavy footsteps.

“Wow, Comet, someone's riding the emotional roller-coaster today. Was that really necessary?”

Loki's grip on his cane tightens and he bares his teeth. “Why.”

“Sorry?”

 _”Why?”_ he growls, “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I minored in bothering people at MIT. It's kind of my superpower.”

Oh, for the– “No, why are you doing _this?_ Pretending you care about what happens to me, having breakfast, going to the store! I tried to _kill you,_ or have you forgotten so quickly? You're just going along with everything like this is somehow _normal_ and we're _friends!_ You turn your back to me as though you believe yourself safe in my presence! I know enough about you to know that you are not a selfless man, that you have little care for what others think or do. _WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?”_

Stark slaps him.

The mortal actually has the gall to slap him.

If it was his intent to shut Loki up then it works, because the god has absolutely no idea how to respond to that. It stuns and angers him in equal parts.

“Do you hear yourself? Get a grip, asshole. For fuck's sake, can't a I just be a decent person for once? Yeah, not gonna lie, when I first saw you I possibly flipped a shit. Same thing the second time. Maybe a little the third. I thought you were up to something and was planning to call Fury once I had a little more intel. But you know what? I'm pretty sure you couldn't fake all of this, even with all your magic voodoo shit. Seriously, have you seen your face? And yeah, I know, you can't, but you know what I mean. No offense, buddy, but you look like shit. I mean I've seen a lot of shit, including in the mirror on bad nights, but it's kind of cringe-worthy when you take off your glasses. Besides, you're fun to bother and hilarious when you're irritated… well, except when you're trying to kill me or whatever, in which case cut it out, because parties without me aren't any fun and I'd hate for the world to have to deal without my kind of awesome. God, you should see the look on your face right now, it's hilarious.”

Off the top of his head, Loki can think of sixty-three ways to seriously maim the imbecile with the box of Grape Nuts he had apparently been so repulsed by. If it weren't for the fact that it would probably cost him his job, number thirty-four sounds like quite good fun.

Fortunately for Stark, just as he's debating whether he could talk his way out of being fired, the man's phone beeps and he shoves the three grocery bags into Loki's arms while he answers it.

“Hey, what's up?” There's a gap, filled by rattling as he taps his foot on the gravel. “Really? Come on, I finally got time off- no, that doesn't count, I was down in the lab working! Shut up.” Stark snorts. “Nothing, just pretty sure that's not possible. Thor would have told us if something's up.”

He bristles at the name, anger swelling in his chest and making it hard to breathe.

The mortal sighs, and kicks at the rocks. “Fine… I'll be right over.” His phone buzzes once as he hangs up.

Fighting down the unwelcome emotion, Loki raises an eyebrow in question.

“Apparently things are blowing up downtown, and there's a tall guy in green running around. Sure you're not cloning yourself?”

“I can assure you, if I wished to draw the Avengers' attention, I would be far more creative in my methods than just causing explosions.”

“Not sure if I should be reassured or concerned by that, Cupid.”

“Take it as you will.”

“Right, well, I've gotta take off and whack not-you upside the head a few times… have fun brooding?”

Loki scowls and turns back to the city (and yes, he is aware of the hypocrisy of his statement earlier, but it's not like he wasn't already forced to assume that Stark wouldn't cause him harm—besides, back turned or not he still can't see the obnoxious creature).

After a moment, the peon's steps recede and the door to the stairwell shuts with a sigh and a click.

He's not _brooding_. He is (was) a respectable prince, and is above such lowly actions. He's simply contemplating his situation.

Okay, fine, maybe he's brooding a tiny bit.

It's hardly as though it's not justified, considering the events of the past night and the still-lingering aftereffects. Loki sets the bags down and pulls his coat tighter around himself, trying to banish the chill. Over the past months, he's tried to figure out a suppressant for it if not a cure—he's not quite that level of delusional, that he would think such a thing would be granted to him—everything from meditation, to witchcraft (and isn't that just contemptible), to copious amounts of alcohol. The first did nothing, the second backfired quite horribly, and the third just led to an awful hangover the following morning.

Another gust of wind causes him to shiver. By the Valkyries' wings, he needs to find somewhere warmer—not home, though. He'll have to clean it some time, he realizes, but for now procrastination wins out. The food has to be dropped off, and the cold things put in the icebox, but his apartment always feels wrong the day or two after… whatever this was.

Three bags are a bit difficult to manage with his cane, which is why he normally tries to shop frequently so that he only has one or two at a time. Not that such a thing could hinder Loki of… not Asgard, anymore. Certainly not Jötunheimr. He can't even claim Yggdrasill, after his connection to her had been rent from his body. He's just Loki. Just nobody.

Why do his thoughts always seem to cycle back to that?

He's not nobody!

If naught else, then he is Loki, prince of the place Between and master of nothingness. Loki, survivor.

That much they cannot take from him.

Loki survives, at any cost.

Plastic rustles obnoxiously loudly as he shifts the bags onto one arm, and he makes his way back down the echoing stairwell. Outside, the traffic is as ridiculous as ever, although it's always just seemed the way of things. It's been so long since he's visited Midgard (and things change so rapidly here) that his knowledge of modern customs and technology is limited, and he's never travelled by car any faster than they move within the city. Briefly he considers taking a taxi, because it's always felt a little more comfortable that walking sightless, but he's not exactly swimming in a vault of gold coin right now. Matt does his best to pay him well, he knows, but the cases they take don't often pay well and it's sometimes difficult for the three of them to make ends meet.

He ends up walking, growing progressively more irritated at the reckless drivers who seemed determined to run him over. Not that it would injure him terribly, but it would be a nuisance and people would likely start asking questions if a man was in far better condition than the car that hit him. Besides, his canteloupe would get bruised. Naturally, as though the pathetic realm is purposefully conspiring to make his day as wretched as possible, the aural cue on the crosswalk signal is broken. On the busiest intersection he crosses.

Loki swears colorfully in six languages, just to spite the day he's having.

“Hey, man. Need a hand?”

…okay, fine. Midgard: 6, Loki: 1. Well, assuming that the kid's talking to him, otherwise two points for the sorry realm. Doesn't sound like anyone else is around, though. “Loathe as I am to say it, that would be appreciated.”

The boy is slightly taller than Stark, which is nice, because it's more comfortable to take his arm. About the Hawk's height, although it's hard to tell for sure. He's always been good at reading people, and sight or not that hasn't changed. By the time he's comfortably taken the offered arm, he has a decent picture of the boy—confident in his abilities, talented most likely, but the outside world hinders him somehow. Loki can read that much from how the boy carries himself, but it's severely lacking in terms of his normal judgements. His voice is clear, genuine rather than holding any ulterior motive. It's a pleasant change.

There's a short period of time between when the help is offered and the street is clear, which they fill with small talk, and he tries to gauge a bit more of the boy's character. He gleans a little, enough to confirm his theory. After they've crossed, Loki thanks him and promises that if they e're meet again and he needs aid, it will be gladly given in return. When he's taken a step away, he pauses and turns.

“May I ask your name?”

“Yeah, 'course.” There's a kind smile in his voice. “I'm Peter.”

Loki bows his head—a compromise he's found between Midgardian behavior and the bows of respect he was so used to on Asgard—and gives a small, grateful smile. “Serrure. May your mounts be swift and your hunts graced with fair weather.”

“May… the roads rise up to meet you?”

“So some of the old ways survived after all,” he laughs, and after a moment adds, “Again, you have my thanks.”

When he gets back to his apartment, he's in and out as quickly as possible. Yes, he knows he'll have to clean it if he doesn't want to find glass in his shoe (again), but he doesn't really care right now. The groceries go to their respective places efficiently, and ten minutes later his key slides into the lock on the door to his office. The deadbolt turns with a solid thunk.

Work is an easy distraction. One thing he's thankful for is the fact that he holds a position here, because it requires a good deal of thought and the skills he learned as a child fit it well.

Law is law, whatever realm or species. Whether or not he'd actually been in line for that wretched throne, his training was that of a future king, and as such he is well aware of the subtle details in Asgardian justice. Beyond that, though, was the… personal study he'd done. Reading people's motivations and intentions is simple by now, and manipulation just as much so. The loopholes may as well be written in red ink (or shouted, right now, considering recent developments) for how easily he can see them. This Midgardian concept of having another man champion ones innocence is bizarre, but the position suits him well. In a perfect world—well, not really, because a perfect world would include his sight, magic, and general respect—he'd speak directly on their behalf. It would be a great deal of fun, wrapping the petty little creatures around his finger, and yield consistently successful results at every trial, but due to his quite literal status as an illegal alien it's best he stay toward the outskirts of legal proceedings.

That's not to say the clients he coached aren't sufficiently prepared. If they can convince him that their case was worthy, he will spend as much time as needed training them to carry themselves, speak steadily, keep their head under pressure, and mind their words. Matt represents them during their trial, and he himself observes from a distance. It's odd to be sought out as counsel on this particular subset of his talents. Yes, it would be better to utilize them directly, but this is still a pleasant change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't heard it before, the blessing Peter mentions is a traditional Gaelic one. He's not quite up to par with Loki yet on spontaneous formalities. The places on Asgard Loki mentions are taken from a map drawn by Peter Gillis (http://dft.ba/-71tW) and concept art for the movie by Craig Shoji (http://dft.ba/-71dM).
> 
> Also, the tumblr is aconitine-apothecary.tumblr.com. As of when I post this it's still kind of in the works, so there are lots of broken links and half-finished pages, but the framework's all there and it's functional. 
> 
> I'll do my best to get the next chapter of Burn the Forest up ASAP, and then the next one for this. I have it outlined, it's just a matter of getting the words to sound wordy.


	7. Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Two chapters in a row? Yes, the writer's block has cleared, and now you have a long-ish chapter to prove it.

“-ure. Serrure, wake up.”

Loki grumbles and tries to pull a pillow over his head, only to find a distinct lack of pillows in lieu of pointy office supplies. Oh, for the love of Valhalla– What time is it, anyway? Norns, his neck is stiff.

“How long have you been here? Actually, I'm not sure I want to know.” There's a heavy clack of ceramic on wood, and the thud of a bag being dropped on the floor.

Sitting up, he rubs his eyes tiredly and finds his glasses, which at some point made their way to the far side of his desk next to a cool glass paperweight his landlady gave him when he'd invited her over for tea. “How late is it?”

Franklin laughs in disbelief. “Late? It's seven thirty in the morning. How often do you fall asleep here?”

He shrugs. Occasionally, depending on how involved in his work he is and how tired he gets. It's as good a place as anywhere to rest, save for the potential soreness upon waking if he falls asleep in an odd position. All things considered, he's slept in far worse conditions. Falling back into slumber is actually a quite tempting idea. It's time to work, though, and having been found asleep is unprofessional, so he stands and smooths his clothing.

“Is there coffee left? I could use the aid in waking up.”

“Yeah, Matt moved the pot over a bit. You doing okay? You've looked a little rough the past week.”

Loki sighs, finding the coffee pot and listening to gauge when the mug is full. He's glad to chase the taste of sleep off his tongue.

“How's the custody case going? I know you've been pretty invested in that one.”

“I lost custody of my children, I'll not let it happen to another.” He taps a stack of papers against the desk to straighten them. “It's a difficult case, thanks to the despicable father, but I believe we will be able to wi-”

The ground shakes once, twice, and a roar sounds in the distance. His head snaps up, senses immediately going into the high-alert of battle, and he lets the dagger he always keeps up his sleeve fall into his palm.

“Holy shit, since when do you carry knives around?”

The blade, when tested, is sharp enough to break his skin upon light contact. Good. “Call it life insurance.”

Franklin laughs. “You have a pretty cheap policy there, Serrure. Ever consider an upgrade?”

Another roar, still in the distance but definitely closer.

“Where are you going?”

He pauses halfway to the door. “Protecting my home. It took long enough to settle here, it would be a hassle to have to restart again.”

“I wish I wasn't so used to people running off like this.”

A raised eyebrow is the most acknowledgement he gives, instead continuing outside. If at all possible he'll avoid getting too close, fighting blind would terrify him even if he won't admit the weakness, and it would draw unneeded attention to his presence on Midgard. However, Ignorance to danger was not something he was fond of.. It would do him well to know what was taking place.

It takes longer than he would like to find the chaos (and, admittedly, it's a slightly refreshing reprieve from the monotonous calm). When he does, he climbs to the rooftop of one of the shorter office buildings and crouches on the edge, observing. He brought his phone, and connects his bluetooth headset to stream local news coverage. Apparently the beasts roaring so obnoxiously are large, white, furry things with impressive claws and four eyes.

Lovely.

Something rockets overhead, and the calls of the Avengers filter up to his ears. It sounds like quite an impressive fight. Lots of clanging when it comes to the good captain' s shield, the thwip of arrows finding their targets, Stark's repulsor blasts… it's interesting to hear when the aggression is not aimed at his own person. The great beast is mysteriously absent, presumably to avoid undue damage to the city (which he appreciates). He tosses the dagger in the air a few times to stop his hands from twitching. That particular tick is getting increasingly noticeable and frustrating, especially in situations like this. Muscle memory from so many centuries of practicing and fighting with throwing knives takes over, and that seems to steady them. Thank Valhalla for that.

The battle seems to have moved away a bit, which for the most part is a good thing, but makes it harder to hear and react to if necessary. He settles back on his heels and listens to the news, wondering briefly what the Avengers would do if they realized he hovered nearby almost every time they fought. Probably attack him, toss him into a cell, interrogate and torture him, call _Thor_ … He shivers. Nothing enjoyable, that much is for certain. They'd hardly believe the blindness and lack of magic, and even less so that his intentions were to fight for the city if the need arose. No doubt the mess would be blamed on him. Typical. It's hardly as though he is evil, far from. He's neither hero nor villain, he just takes the side that benefits him most. Currently, that side happens to be that of Hell's Kitchen.

Loki makes his way back to the stairwell and down to ground level. It's not difficult to find where the merry band of, well, not heroes either, really, save maybe the captain and his ridiculous morals, are fighting. All he has to do is follow the screaming and gunshots. Back on Asgard, there would be few screams save that of babes if monsters somehow found their way into the village. Well, monsters they knew, not the one who walked among them in the guise of an Áss. Few even of the women would make such sounds. It's not as though shrieking helped any, considering it only gave away one's position. Granted, Asgard's warriors were fond of roaring battle cries and being general idiots. He sighs, catching the edge of a trash can with his cane and sidestepping it. It's a wonder the realm has survived as long as it has with that sort of approach to fighting. The Svartálfar, with whom Asgard had always held tension, were too far to their own end of barbaric to pose any real threat, but the Álfa? If their allegiance turned, their cleverness and subtlety could pose a good deal of danger. Asgard was not prepared for an attack of stealth.

Oh well. Asgard could fall now for all he cared…

Okay, so maybe that was a tiny bit of a lie… he was still their prince, once, and though he'd never held as much respect as the rest of his family, they were still his people and he still favored them to an extent. Such emotions were useless now, though, so the lie was a better option than the truth.

A little ways from the shouted commands and beastly roars, Loki finds a tree branched enough to climb and tall and leafy enough to hide. He folds his cane, tucks it under his arm, and carefully makes his way up through the limbs. There's a good junction between two of them to perch.

After a few minutes the fighting returns to the area he's claimed as his, and everything becomes a flurry of noise and vibration. It's hard to keep track of what's happening where—the Hawk calls out in pain at the same time something slices through flesh and Stark shoots by—there's so much activity moving so fast that everything blurs together. Back on Asgard he'd always been the best of Thor's friends when it came to fighting in the dark because he's patient and attentive, able to step quietly and pick off enemies one by one, but that was when everyone was at the same disadvantage.

The tree rustles as he shifts his balance to get a little closer. Closing his eyes might not really do anything when it comes down to it, but it helps him to focus and makes the darkness slightly more natural. Slowly, ever so slowly, the information starts to separate into its pieces, so that to an extent he can keep track of where each creature is below him.

Repulsors sound, sending one of the beasts against the trunk, and he almost loses his grip having not prepared for it. Norns, fear is part of fighting, and having some keeps one alive, but this amount is new and unwelcome. He should just leave them all to rot as carrion for the birds. If he shows himself now, it's just as likely that they'll come after him as they will the creatures, and they'll know he's escaped… except if the Avengers fall, then so too does the city. There are other heroes here, sure, but none ready to fight. If the beasts get too far away then the few friends he's made will be in danger as will the life he's built.

Either way, he loses.

Shouts come from his right, and it seems the fighting has moved off to the side a bit. The weight of the dagger in his hand is the only thing keeping him from bolting here and now, because Loki does what is best for Loki, not for a group of idiot mortals. Especially not blinded in the two senses he relies on most.

A cry of pain and fear comes from his left.

 _”NATASHA–!”_ The Captain yells, a note of desperation in his voice that makes his decision for him. It's the way someone shouts when there's nothing they can do.

One of the creatures roars, Loki pinpoints the sound, and he pounces. Air rushes by during those long seconds between perch and ground—seconds in which he second-guesses himself again and again—but when his fingers grip coarse fur any hesitation vanishes. Three thousand years of conditioning kick into gear and thought melts to instinct.

The blade digs raggedly into tough flesh and the monster screams. It's not the knife he would have preferred to use for a fight, too short for such thick-skinned creatures, but it's enough of a distraction for the assassin to get up and out of range. He holds the dagger between his teeth and reaches forward, finding the right grip points and pulling the thing's head at an angle to snap its neck. It goes down heavily and Loki's thrown against a tree hard enough to stun.

Unfortunately, the little display gained the attention of Avengers and beasts alike. Quick recovery or not, this isn't good. At all. He swears colorfully in as many languages as words.

Stark's repulsors change in pitch as he turns. “Loki?”

A more pressing concern arises than the Avengers' array of emotions at present, because the ground vibrates from heavy footsteps pounding closer. Claws swipe close enough to his cheek to feel a breeze as he somersaults forward out of the way.

The now warm grip on the blade brings back memories of fights across Asgard and the realms—battles for treasure, pride, politics, and their lives. It's a strange sort of comfort. A spin points him back at what should be the creature's side just in time for an arrow to whizz by his ear and bury itself deep in its flesh. The beast makes a pained noise and turns on him, leaving just enough time to wonder if the arrows was meant for the creature or for him. Either way it's done him little good.

It's all he can do to fend off the onslaught of attacks, but once he zeroes in on the small details it becomes easier to keep track of where the thing is. Every one of its breaths and footsteps he notes to place it in the black plane of his mind. He's caught more times than he would like, and after a few minutes of sparring teeth clamp down on his arm and breaks his skin. Loki makes the most of the opportunity and uses the now concrete knowledge of its position to make a clean kill.

Behind him, the others fight their own battles as a team, calling out formations and attacks.

Stark's voice sounds in his ear. “Loki, what the hell are you doing here?”

He ducks under the swipe of a paw and lunges forward, knife meeting thin air. “I'm fighting, you useless mortal, what does it appear as though I'm doing?”

“Um, yeah, not what I meant. I was going more along the lines of _why_ are you fighting. Thanks for saving Tasha, but no offense, you're not exactly at full power right now. Ooh, that looks like it hurt.”

Warmth spreads across his shoulder where claws drew blood. “Yes, thank you for your helpful observation.” This time he catches a handful of fur, and tries to swing up onto the thing's back. It jolts to the right too soon, and he tumbles back onto the grass.

“Get the fuck out of here, moron, you're going to get yourself killed!”

“Too late. The Avengers know I'm on Earth, this can only end in pain.”

“Never pegged you as a self-sacrificing sort of guy.”

Loki scoffs. “I'm not. But letting your,” he scoffs, _“friends_ die is bad for me, and this was the better option. Besides, I think you knocked my tree over.” A roar sounds too close and he's cuffed in the ear, sending him rolling away.

“Awesome. Glad to know it's not because I make a good coffee buddy, or in return for the groceries I paid for. Watch ou–”

Too late. He's sent flying again.

“Alright, asshole, there's open space to your five o' clock. Get your sorry ass out of here, because if you're around when we've brought these assholes down we're coming after you, and I'm guessing you don't want tha–” A repulsor blast sounds, and then a solid thud and clang of metal. “Jarvis, switch over to team comms. Cap, watch your six! I need your shield!” Another clang. “Thanks, Jarv, switch back to call. Loki, Jarvis'll tell you where to go and if there's anything to trip over. I'll tell Happy to be waiting for you a couple blocks ove– Oh no you don't, you son of a bitch! –a couple blocks over. He won't tell anyone he saw you unless I give the word, he's cool like that. Go!”

He jumps back to avoid an attack, and makes a run for it. Stark's got a point, and if he's willing to aid his escape, then he'll hardly say no. The Avengers should be able to handle the rest of the beasts.

An oddly distorted voice filters through his headset. “Six paces and turn forty-five degrees right. There is a curb in two steps.”

That is incredibly disconcerting, but the directions hold true and while his heart is pounding out of anxiety now without his cane, he doesn't trip over anything while he runs.

“Thirteen paces to the other curb, forty-five degrees to your right, one hundred and twenty-three paces forward.”

Instructions keep coming, warning him of a box in the sidewalk and cars on the street, until he hears someone shout the name he's taken up on Midgard. Instinctually, he pauses and turns his head.

“Over here, man!”

What was the voice's name? Stark mentioned it… “Jarvis, is this the man Stark sent me to find?”

“It is, sir. Continue seven paces.”

Loki does. The man—Happy, Stark called him? What an odd name—takes his arm and leads him to the car. He slides into the passenger seat gratefully, and waits for Happy to get in as well.

“Where to?”

It only takes a moment to decide a course of action, having planned for such an occasion. “I need to get to the nearest subway entrance with access to the #7 platform.”

“You got it.” The car's engine comes to life and they speed off in what he knows to be the right direction. That's a nice sign. After a few moments of slightly uncomfortable silence, the man speaks again. “So… you're the guy who led an alien invasion on the city, huh?”

“Yes.”

“You kind of blew up my room.”

“My apologies.”

They fall back into silence.

A little while later, through absolutely wretched traffic even for Manhattan, the car comes to a more final stop and Loki steps out.

“Anything else you need?”

Loki considers for a moment, apprehensive of the fact that his cane is somewhere back where the Avengers yet fight. “Jarvis, are you able to guide me through a crowd?” The computerized voice affirms it, and he looks back in the man's direction. “Do you have a coat and a hat?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Give them to me.”

There's a pause. “What?”

He sighs. “Give them to me. The hat and coat. I need them.”

“But this coat's worth-”

“Right, because Stark is incapable of buying you a new one. I require them. Give them to me or I will slit your throat.” The articles of clothing are handed to him, and he smiles. “My thanks.” It's not ideal, but tying his hair up and donning the different clothing gives him enough difference in appearance that it will make it difficult for S.H.I.E.L.D. to find him in security footage of the crowd. The sunglasses help, too. Without another word to the driver, Loki starts toward the entrance to the subway.

With Jarvis' aid he manages not to bump into too many people (although it's unavoidable in such a dense crowd, and the voice can only speak so quickly), and finds his way toward the #7 line. Getting on it, though, is another hurdle. Until now, Jarvis had been able to guide him around the camera's blind spots, allowing the computer to constantly stay aware of his surroundings, but between the rush of passengers and number of unavoidable places where the cameras cannot see, that help will be inaccessible for a deal of it. Jarvis explains this while he waits, and he sighs. Without his cane this will be a nightmare, and he hates relying on other people… he's without much choice, though, so he asks Jarvis to point him in the direction of an elderly woman waiting on the same train. It doesn't even take a lie this time, just a little extra acting.

She's speaking to someone when the computer gives him the right angle, so he has a judgement of how far she is. Letting Jarvis fall to silence and his disability become more prevalent, he makes a call while he waits for her to finish, then approaches.

“Excuse me, ma'am?”

He hears the scrape of her shoes on the concrete. “Can I help you?” Her voice reminds him of the tailor in the northeast side of the central kingdom.

“I'm, um–“ Loki looks down, smiling shyly to make himself appear less confident than he truly is. Granted, he's more than a little uncomfortable, not least because he has the Avengers on his tail and none of his usual methods to gauge his surroundings, but that's not quite the same emotion he's aiming to portray. “I'm blind, and lost my cane. Would you mind helping me on and off the train?”

She immediately starts to fret over him—definitely a mother at some point, which he'd counted on when choosing how to play her emotions. “Oh, of course you poor dear. Where are you headed?”

“Grand Central. If you are not traveling as far, then of course I wish you no such inconvenience.”

The woman assures him it's not an inconvenience at all, as she's going to Queensboro Avenue. He thanks her, truly grateful that aid came without too much fuss, and apparently his manners charm her even more because she starts going on about how wonderful it is to meet a man his age who speaks and acts so politely. With her help it's not too difficult to make it to his stop, where he tells her no, he would hate to make her go out of her way and needs no more help anyway, because he has someone to help him the rest of the way. Once the train leaves, Jarvis resumes warning him of what pedestrians he can.

Loki, in his time in Manhattan, has come to know any number of people. Building relationships with the homeless and the outcasts opens opportunities that most would not realize, and it is one of these connections he plans to utilize. There is a man who has a rather specialized skill-set which will be necessary. It is he who he called earlier waiting for the #7 train, and whom he now seeks out.

“Serrure, I presume?”

He nods. “Yes. You are willing to lead me?” The bluetooth is no longer required, so he tucks the headset into his new coat and pulls the battery out of his phone before storing that too. Stark does not need to know where he's going, and he doesn't trust him to have backed out of his phone completely now that he's at least partially hacked it. He'll probably lose signal down here anyways.

“Yeah, sure. But if you get killed, don't say I didn't warn you. Cops shouldn't be an issue once we get past the gates, but it's not the easiest of places to get to. Dragging a blind guy around is gonna make it even harder.”

“I'm not overly concerned. I need to access it, and you can aid me. It is quite simple.”

“If you say so. Come on, then, this way.”

It's hardly a far distance, but what takes longer is waiting for the crowd to thin enough that there's a window of time when both eyes are turned away and a train's just passed, giving them a safer amount of time. The man (he does not know his name, nor does he need to) pushes the gate open with a tiny squeak, and they duck into the depths of the tunnels. They stay quiet, because sound echoes off the concrete and the last thing they need is for a maintenance worker to realize that two men are wandering around down here where they're definitely not supposed to be.

Five or ten minutes into their journey over the ridiculously steep terrain, a rattling roar sounds from down the tunnel and Loki is unceremoniously dragged forward at a breakneck pace and shoved into an indent in the wall.

“Stay put!” the man hisses, and disappears from his side.

Thirty seconds later a train speeds past, close enough that he can feel the significant change in air pressure and has to cover his ears to dampen the noise. Once it's passed he's dragged back out and they continue on. The tunnel air tastes like iron and spray-paint, something so incredibly alien that it makes his hair stand on end. He can tell when they pass graffiti, even years-old writing registers with his senses. It's irritating. What is it with the mortals and putting bizarre, unnecessary chemicals in everything?

They end up on a thin ledge along the edge of the tunnel, at which point he has to let go of his guide.

“Watch the third rail. You fall off here, six hundred and twenty-five volts will be the last thing you know before you meet your maker.”

All things considered, he's survived any number of painful electrocutions, but he's not going to tell him that. Thankfully, sight or not he has impeccable balance and there's no real danger of him falling so long as he minds the edge.

It's not too long until they turn off the main tunnel after that.

“Welcome to the Grand Central Trolley Loop. Abandoned since 1908. Almost nobody knows this is here, and even fewer are stupid enough to try and get to it unless they're damn good at this. I fall into the second category, by the way. Been doing this for decades. You wouldn't believe the shit that's hidden down here in the tunnels.”

Loki nods and pulls out the handful of cash they'd agreed upon for the journey. “You have my thanks.”

“Yeah. You know my number if you need to get anywhere else down here.”

“Of course. May your travels back be safe.”

“Thanks.”

The footsteps recede, and he's left in the most complete silence he's heard in a long time. Even back in that wretched cave, the wind howled almost constantly outside. Now the only sound is the timely passing of trains a little ways in the distance. It's remarkably soothing. The chances of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers even considering that he'd run to the tunnels is miniscule, and even smaller are those that they'd be willing and able to find him down here.

There's not much around—just a concrete ledge, three metal pipes, and some dirt. Most certainly not something any mortal would consider him stooping to, which is what makes it so perfect. They don't realize the conditions that he and Th–

A shiver wracks his body at the name, even just as a thought in his head. Those cold, frozen eyes, so not the brother he'd once had…

But when they had gone hunting and fighting so long ago, they'd spent months in conditions far worse than these. Sure, he's used to splendor and riches, but he is by no means so pretentious that he demands them. This will work quite nicely until the immediate danger has dissipated and he can come up with a more long-term plan.

He lays his coat out on the concrete, where the ledge meets a block on the end of the tunnel and widens a bit. The partially-stolen hat isn't important anymore so he leaves it on the top of a metal box on the wall—presumably housing some sort of electrical equipment—and takes stock of what he has with him. His dagger is in his sleeve again, he has the cellphone (although that may or may not be a risk to use, however seemingly trustworthy Stark may seem), a bluetooth headset (only as useful as the phone), and the small kit he always keeps on him in case of emergency. That leaves him with a set of lockpicks, a small flask of water, a lighter, some wire, a roll of bandages and medical tape, alcoholic wipes, antibiotics, and an energy bar. There's also a small bag of herbs, a couple crystals, and some chalk in his other pocket.

Well, it was better than nothing.

Loki sets about cleaning and dressing his wounds, which the coat had thankfully hidden for the most part so no curious mortal started asking questions. He'd have a few bruises, but they'd heal within an hour or so, and the cuts should do so almost as quickly. There was no poison or venom on the creature's claws to prevent it. Once finished to as decent an extent as he easily can under such conditions, he curls up on the coat and lets himself drift off to sleep so that his energy can be focused on recovering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Áss—singular of Æsir, primary species of Asgard  
> Svartálfar—dark/black elves of Svartálfaheimr  
> Álfa—light elves of Ālfheimr
> 
> Just as a sidenote, for the most part I'm sticking to Old Norse spellings for consistency since the Marvel 'verses don't have all the people, places, and things that the Eddas do.
> 
> The Grand Central Trolly Loop is a real place, and it really has been abandoned for about a century. So if you want to see where Loki's set up camp (and by camp I mean fallen asleep on a stolen coat), here's photos and a little history. It's not incredibly obvious that you have to scroll down to see them, but ignore the top bit and just head to the bottom of the page: http://ltvsquad.com/2012/09/04/grand-central-trolley-loop/
> 
> (Also, thanks go to Amy_the_Asgardian for catching some really dumb spelling and grammatical errors)


	8. Mindfulness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I'm making up for lost time or something, because suddenly there are words everywhere.
> 
> As advance warning for future chapters, I'm going to be pulling from both mythology and some modern-day practices to help portray Loki as the god he is. I've spent more than a few hours on research for everything I mention, and have tried to stay accurate and respectful, but not having experienced them myself there's a fair chance I'll make a few mistakes. If you catch any, it would be awesome if you'd let me know so that I can fix things and learn from my mistakes.
> 
> And finally, thar be spoilers ahead. From here on out, the events of Iron Man 3 will be fair game to be referred to in conversation and such. They're only briefly mentioned in this chapter, but it could still spoil the ending if you haven't seen it.

Ever since his fall from the Bifrost, his mind's been in chaos. The voices in his head have been getting louder and more insistent, but without magic there's nothing he can do. The destruction tore out more than just his connection to Yggdrasil, thanks to how woven into him his power had been, and certain aspects of himself are in a bit of disarray. There's been an insistent tugging at the back of his thoughts, weak at first, but growing stronger as the weeks pass. Up until now he's largely ignored it since he's been busy, but now it could prove useful.

It's been a week and a half since he first made his escape into the Loop, and he's getting bored. Sure, if he needs to he can stay here indefinitely—his body can go without food and water for a great deal of time—but not being able to see anything is frustrating and cuts down on things to focus on. The time must be waited out, though, to get the Avengers off his tail. He uses it to plot.

One of the things he needs most is his cane, since without it he's essentially unable to be independent. He's also a bit thirsty, and could use some of the amenities from his apartment. Once he has those he'll be in much better shape and spirits, and it will open more opportunities. There's another sharp tug at his mind.

_Of course._

Loki smiles, a plan suddenly blooming in his mind. It will be difficult in his current state, but the invoking appears to be relatively strong, and with the guidance of the one calling, this should work.

He settles into a comfortable position and easily sinks into meditation. There's little point in waiting, and if he's wanted now then it's worth not wasting time and then having to hope they’ll try again within a short span of time. With such peacefulness in the tunnel and the relative safety it grants him, it's easy to clear his mind and drift deeper. Now that he’s acknowledged it the pull forms a sort of connection, a pathway from his mind to theirs, and gingerly Loki steps out onto it. This is one of the things weakened after his fall, and he would do well to be wary in case the tie weakens or breaks entirely.

It takes a great deal of time and mental effort on both parties' parts, but finally he manages to brush up against the mind he seeks.

_**Hello, precious one.** _

He can feel the shock, being so close to… her? Yes, it definitely feels like a girl. This shouldn't be so hard, normally he'd be completely aware of her without any conscious effort, and the summoning would be a simple matter. It's not clear if this is the void's doing, or Odin's, but it's seriously affected his mental abilities.

_Loki?_

_**Aye.** _

_We- We were starting to worry you'd forgotten about us._

_**You are not forgotten,**_ he says firmly, _**ever. I have always heard, always listened, and always cared. I'm afraid I've been unable to reach out, though, due to recent events.**_

She doesn't ask, and he appreciates the courtesy.

_Thank you, fulltrui._

Loki smiles to himself. Such devotion is growing rarer nowadays, with the decline in the old ways, but at the same time he's developed more personal relationships in some regards. It largely depends on the worshipper and their understanding of the gods. Of him.

_**Why have you called for me?** _

_There is a ritual we'd like some help on, if you're willing. And we'd kind of wanted to speak with you. If that's okay?_

He sends a general affirmative feeling her way.

_Some rules first, though._ The girl sets her boundaries, and asks if he'll still take her as a horse. The requests she makes are wise—not letting her get hurt, not doing anything illegal, etc.—and he easily agrees.

_**I'll warn you in advance—this won't be easy on either of us. You'll likely feel unwell when I leave.** _

She agrees.

_**I would request something in return.**_  A wave of curiosity, desire to please him, and wariness sweep through her mind. _**I require a mortal body for a task. Is that acceptable?”**_

Hesitation.

_**No harm will come to you.** _

Again, she agrees.

Loki grins, bracing himself for the full transition. _**Then it's time to play.**_

As he'd expected, it's painful at best and takes a ridiculous amount of energy to force himself in. He mentally apologizes to his horse, then locks her away for the time being. After a moment to adjust to the new body, he looks up with a grin.

“Hello.”

There's a brief pause, and then the other girl speaks. “Oh, hi, um, wow.”

He laughs. “This one says you wished to speak with me.”

“Yeah. Ah, we got food for you if you wanted something?”

“I'm afraid that while my hopes were to regain sight in this body, that has not happened. What is on the table?”

Ceramic scrapes across wood as a bowl is pushed toward him. “There's candy, fruit, and crackers in there, but if there's something else you want I can get it. We had stuff for margaritas, too, so there's one to the right. It's spicy.”

“Fantastic,” he says with another grin, inspecting the contents of the dish. “I'm guessing from the pair of you's reactions that this is your first time horsing?”

“My first time being with someone when a god takes possession, but not her's doing it. Thank you for coming.”

Loki nods once, acknowledging her. “Of what did you care to discuss?”

“We were kind of wondering… where you've been? I mean, I know it's not entirely our business, but nobody's heard from you in over a year. We're all kind of worried.”

“Things in Asgard have been… complicated. It's difficult for me to respond to prayers at present; I was only able to ride this one because you've been so persistent and were in close enough vicinity. I want you to tell the others you mentioned that I have hardly abandoned them—there is a great difference between ignoring and not responding. Do you have cheese? I want cheese.” The margarita does indeed hold quite a kick, which is enjoyable.

While the girl runs off, he stretches, getting a feel for the new body. It's significantly less sore than his own—concrete isn't his favorite bed. He decides to take a look around, and starts poking through her things. There are any number of interesting electronic devices, it seems, he recognizes a few that people he knows own. Gaming devices (those he takes interest in, but their reliance on imagery makes them largely useless for the time being), a laptop, and a phone are the first things he finds, then he stumbles across her jewelry and it's significantly more fun. There are all sorts of materials and textures, one that's made of cool stone beads and another that feels like chips of some sort of stone. A couple pendants, too, and some feathery things.

She comes back and he sits again, content with his new snack, and helps her with what she'd asked. It's nothing that requires the sort of magic he once channeled thorugh Yggdrasil, just seiðr, and as such it's pretty easy. Loki's kind of missed this. Working with mortals. Not in the way that he does with Matt and Franklin, although it's nice to work as equals, or the bizarre form Stark seems to desire. Centuries have passed in which he's been a god to the mortals, working with and guiding them, and causing chaos when he thinks it will do them good. Sometimes just because he can, too, because it's in his nature. If only S.H.I.E.L.D. would realize that a little mayhem every once in a while is good for them… He laughs. The foolish mortals, always assuming that everything's about them. It's not like he has any real vendetta, save for maybe against Stark for his idiocy. Those who respect him he tends to respect in turn, and those who actively worship him he likes to reward. Things are harder, with his capacity for fully focusing on so many things at once diminished, and it's incredibly frustrating.

Loki turns the discussion to her life, gleaning what he can of her prayers and thoughts from the cacophony of noise in his head. He gives her advice, and a bit of a talking to, and it's nice to have someone listen to his advice about such subjects instead of running off and doing the exact opposite. Really, it's nice to be a god. He chats with the girl whose body he's currently borrowing while he helps the other, asking about current events amongst his worshippers and what's happened in his absence. Apparently one of the more prevalent members of the community has been in contact with him over the past months. Loki makes a note to deal with that issue in the coming days.

Admittedly, his primary intentions for speaking with them today were selfish, although he's trying to be suitably helpful to them in return, but there's something he needs to do that requires working with another mortal. When they're done with the two girls' requests he stands and lets his horse's consciousness back in until they're in equal control. It would be so much easier to just keep full possession, but this will be difficult without vision and he doesn't really want to take a guide again. The fewer people know about this the better, and the safer he'll stay. He may be trapped in darkness, but she can walk confidently with her own sight still intact.

They stand, and he looks down to the other girl. “Don't worry, I'll take care of her.”

There's a brief pause. “I trust you.”

Loki smiles. Trust, what a funny thing. The humans give it so easily to beings they cannot even begin to comprehend, and perhaps that's what he finds so endearing. Perhaps they're a bit naïve, but he does care for them. Valkyries, does S.H.I.E.L.D. truly think him incapable of more than one emotion at a time? Cretins.

The pair of them make their way through the city, her navigating their surroundings and himself giving directions as needed. Loki purposefully takes them through a slightly convoluted course to throw her off a little, because while it wouldn't be hard to note the street names the chances of her checking are slim. Mortals are like that. It's not that he thinks she'll come after him, but a little extra insurance is always a good idea.

When they get to the right building, he takes over complete possession again so that she has no memory of events. Pulling one of the bobby pins from her hair, he considers what he'll need. Why is it that she had to use such strong pins? Her body isn't strong enough to easily snap it, so it takes a few minutes to do so effectively. He uses the lock to bend the pieces into lock picks and sets about breaking in.

Naturally, in what may have been slight paranoia he'd purchased an incredibly difficult lock to pick and warded his apartment with the strongest types he could with only mortal witchcraft at his disposal. If there's one thing he's good at, though, it's getting into places people want to keep him out of. It takes five minutes at most.

Once inside his path is familiar and easy to navigate. He's not sure when or if he'll ever be able to come back, and he'll miss this. It was quaint, but cozy in a mortal sort of way.

Loki sighs. Of course defending himself would lead to him getting into more trouble than ever. This seems to be a recurring pattern in his life… Oh well, it's too late to change things now.

There's a backpack in his room that should be large enough to fit his purposes, and he brings it out to the kitchen table. The first things in are a couple changes of clothes and a blanket, followed by energy bars and the bottles of supplements he's collected since it's difficult to maintain anything even resembling a healthy diet on a human income. He grabs sleeping pills and painkillers from the cabinet, since the nightmares have returned with a vengeance. There's another dagger under his pillow he decides could be useful, too. Maybe a vial of poison? Couldn't hurt. Another bottle of water, his phone charger, all the cash he has, his computer and its charger, and a tin of mints because they'd fit in the little side pocket.

His bag full, he slings it over his shoulder and finds his cane. That should do it for a month or so.

After making a quick call to the man who guided him through the tunnels again, to ask if he'd deliver something (he would, for a price that Loki was willing to pay), he heads to the subway station to catch a ride to Grand Central where he'll meet him. Now that he has the cane it's not hard to find his own way. Even in the city, people seemed to respect the personal space of a blind man. Not everyone, of course, but it is significantly easier than having that stupid computer try to speak quickly enough and fail miserably.

The bag gets handed off, he gives him the payment in advance (which would be stupid except for the fact that there's the possibility of more money for him later on), and lets the girl back in enough to get her home easily. He makes sure the other girl is there to help her with what will inevitably be an unpleasant experience when he leaves, then says a quick goodbye and gives his thanks before slipping back into his own body. When he does, the bag is sitting at his side. Fantastic.

*'*'*

It's another three weeks before Loki once more feels the subtle tug of someone seeking him out. He debates it for a while—he's low on food and water, but not particularly desperate—though if there's one thing he _is,_ it's curious. Down here, there's no way of telling what the movements of his adversaries are. It's been over a month since he fled into his little tunnel, and he's bored out of his mind. Most of it he's spent in meditation or pacing up and down the space he's started to call home. If it's safe to come out and hide somewhere a bit more comfortable, that would be appreciated.

As usual, curiosity gets the best of him and he figures why not. Besides, if nothing else he'll get a bit of company for an hour or so.

Again, he asks to use the girl's body for an errand in return for his aid—it's not the same two as before, there's four of them this time, actually—and she acquiesces. He helps and speaks with them (and they give him food and drink again, which he loves, because even if they don't do anything for his true body he can still appreciate the taste), then learns that one of the girls in the group is blind. Her cane is given without protest, which makes things infinitely easier since he doesn't have to return to his apartment again. This girl doesn't seem to use bobby pins, anyway, and he'd have to steal a paperclip from somewhere if he wanted to get in.

Unlike last time, he has no desire for gathering supplies. It's a hassle, and there's no real need at this point. Instead, he decides to make a bit of a gamble on, well, not trustworthiness exactly, but whether or not he'll be revealed, and heads toward Stark Tower. Getting there is a bit of a trick, since he doesn't know that side of the city well and the constant commotion after so long in silence is distracting. Cars honking, people shouting, the growl of motors and the whine of power tools… The discussion with the humans helped ease him into it, but it's still a little overwhelming.

He ends up having to ask for directions, not remembering the exact location of the building (he was otherwise occupied during the battle, and it was hard to miss something as tall and brightly-lit as it was). To the mortal body, with the swish of automatic doors comes a welcome warmth that he would otherwise not have paid attention to. As it is, the air is gaining enough of a bite to be uncomfortable in thin clothing for extended periods of time.

Judging from the murmur of voices and occasional laughs, the lobby is relatively well-occupied. Two businessmen are in an argument with the receptionist over something insignificant—how typically mortal. There's a TV in one corner playing the news, so he sits on a cushioned bench and listens for a time.

Apparently, the Avengers have been busy with a new threat; the branches of a group called Aim? Some idiotic plot involving kidnapping the president of the country and blowing people up. It's messy, overly complicated, and generally in bad taste. Loki rolls his eyes while the newscasters discuss the other branches of the company that yet stand, which the merry band of misfits is after. And Stark's house has been destroyed? He can't help but laugh at the idiocy of announcing the location of his home to a terrorist and challenging him to fight, although he must admit that it took a certain amount of daring. That's something he would have loved to see—chaos, everywhere. A pity he missed it.

The two men finally give up on whatever they were fighting about, leaving the receptionist free. He makes his way over toward where their voices were coming from and smiles sweetly.

“Can I help you?”

Playing up the innocence of the younger woman's body he's using, Loki looks in her direction and acts a bit lost, eyes just the tiniest bit wider and fidgeting with the cane.

“Yes, um, hi. I spoke with Mr. Stark on the phone a few weeks ago. He asked for my help on a project, but I had to finish what I was doing at work, and now that I'm free I figured I'd speak with him since he wanted me to see him when I had the chance…” He trails off.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Uh, no, my phone broke and I don't have his number anymore.”

Her voice becomes a bit skeptical, obviously assuming he's lying in an attempt to see the man, which is logical but not technically true. Nothing he told her was false.

She sighs. “What's your name?”

A quick glance back through the girl's memories yields an answer that's suitable. “Morgan. Morgan Streets. He mentioned something about a Jarvis?”

The receptionist makes a call, and he only gets half of the conversation. It's not exceptionally useful, just relaying what he'd already said. He taps on the glass desk absentmindedly, considering his options.

An elevator dings. “Alright,” comes a familiar voice from his left as the door slides open, “I'm interested. 'Cause I definitely don't recognize you, but not many people know about Jarvis. _She,”_ there's a pause in which he guesses he's pointing at the woman sitting at the desk, like that would do a blind girl any good, “doesn't even know who Jarvis is.”

“Could we speak in private?”

“I'm kind of in a monogamous relationship right now, or I'd totally take you up on that.”

Loki huffs and rolls his eyes. “Your mind is perpetually in the gutter. That's not what I meant. I wouldn't sleep with you if the world were ending.”

“Ooh, that hurt.”

“It was meant to. Now, can we speak alone? Unless you like discussing sensitive subjects in public.”

“Oh, alright, fine… you're no fun.”

“Sorry.”

There's a presence at his side now. “Want me to lead you?”

Yes. _Norns,_ yes, a guide would be so much appreciated right now, he's so far past sick of wandering foreign places alone and without a cane. He reaches out toward the voice and finds Stark's arm with an amount of relief he'll never admit to anyone but himself.

“It's weird doing this with someone shorter with me. I've got a friend who used to let me guide him, but he was ridiculously tall.”

He's not _that_ tall. Stark's just short.

They go into what must be a conference room of some sort, judging from the length of the glass table. He ends up leaning against the wall, while the mortal sits on it.

“So.” A chair squeaks on the wood floor as it's slid to the side.

He smirks. “So I heard you blew up your suits for the fun of it. Really?”

“Hey! It was a celebratory holiday and the-president-didn't-die-and-I-didn't-either fireworks celebration!”

“I see.”

“Shut up! And what the hell are you here for, anyway? Don't think you can sidetrack my curiosity.”

Letting all pretense go, Loki looks in his direction, unimpressed. “You are insufferable, Stark. I see you've been busy in my absence.”

“What?”

He sighs. “Þú ert sannarlega barnaleg. It's just as well that you paid for my groceries, because thanks to you I never got to eat them. Abhorrent mortal.”

“Wait, _Loki?”_

“I don't know why you sound so surprised. I don't exactly have an easy path back to Asgard, and wouldn't take it if I did. Valkyries only know what they'll do if they find me walking free. I wouldn't be surprised if I've been outlawed and am to be killed on sight.”

“Asgard sounds seriously fucked up.”

He shrugs, shifting his (their, really) weight to the other foot. “It is what it is. Do they know I escaped?”

“Yeah, Fury told them. Schmancy mister Odinson's pretty–“

Loki cuts him off, grabbing the man's shirt and digging nails into his skin without really thinking about it. “Do not say that name in my presence,” he snarls, “unless you wish me to tear you limb from limb and scatter the pieces to the four winds.”

“Woah, man—can I call you man? Considering the, y'know, sudden genderswap. How did you even manage that? Did you get your scary magic shit back? How did you find a way to do that? I demand an explanation—man, woman, or variation thereupon, _chill out.”_

How in Valhalla does he even fit that many questions into what sounds like one sentence? It takes a moment to separate them all out. “You may call me whatever you wish, gender is largely meaningless for a shapeshifter. No, I have not regained my magic, but I do retain fragments of my godhood, although they are weaker than they should be. While I cannot initiate it, a strong enough invocation can allow me to ride a mortal body.”

Stark breaks down into laughter.

“Get your mind out of the gutter, not like that!”

“Sure…”

He huffs and crosses his arms. “The mortals call it horsing. The idea is that a god takes possession of the human's, or horse's, body, to provide direct communication between them and the mortals.”

“So you've hijacked some chick's body? That's creepy.”

“I was invited, Stark. With a great deal of conviction, for me to be able to manage this in my weakened state. More of a pull than a push.”

“Still creepy.”

Loki rolls his eyes. “That's not relevant.”

There's a steady beat of fingers on glass. “So what is? Thought you were busy hiding– Where _were_ you hiding, anyway?”

“Are. Present tense. And why would I tell you? Somewhere you and your ridiculously attired friends can't find me.”

“Woah there,” Stark says, and there's a clap of rubber on wood as he hops down from the table. “Friends implies you trust someone not to stab you as soon as you turn away.”

“What would you call them, then?”

“Conditional allies. Honestly, I'm kind of waiting for Tasha to break my arm for ordering from the wrong pizza joint. She's like that. What do you call your fighting buddies?”

“Brothers-in-arms or comrades, depending upon the group. Sif and the Warriors three would call me their rearguard, which is as much an indication of trust as saying I was their brother-in-arms.”

Stark whistles. “You're saying Thor's buddies _trusted_ you?”

“Of course they did.” He rolls his eyes. “At least to some extent. We _had_ to trust each other, otherwise we wouldn't have survived. Are you telling me you don't trust the Avengers in combat?”

“Oh, no, I trust them as long as we have the same goal. It's the rest of the time that I watch my back.”

“I suppose that is fair. How _are_ the dear Avengers, if I might ask?”

There's a pause. “Did you do all this freaky voodoo possession to come over here and try to get me to give something away?”

“It's not voodoo, peasant, and no. Well, not entirely. I'm more interested in how devotedly they're searching for me and how vigilant S.H.I.E.L.D. is being.”

“Okay, gotcha. That makes sense, I guess. But I mean, it's been a month and a half since you popped up, and last time you did you kind of saved Tasha's life, so you're not our number-one priority. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“Cool. That doesn't mean we've forgotten about you, though, so I'd keep your head down. I think Fury’s realized by now that sticking you in a cell in the middle of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters is a bad idea, but he’s pretty keen on having a nice sit-down chat after everything that happened. He’s still pissed about you destroying his fancy new helicarrier. And the city, too, of course, but I think mainly the helicarrier. I'm guessing Asgard is a little more concerned with you than we are, but you can probably put the battery back in your phone now.”

How did he- His confusion must show on his face, because the man picks up on it.

“You hung up on Jarvis in a subway station, and then went off the grid completely. Even if you'd turned your phone off I would have been able to get to it. The most obvious solution would be to pull out the battery, and I'm pretty sure you're smart enough to think of that.”

Loki smirks. Of course he's smart enough. Most likely smarter than the mortal has guessed. People tend to underestimate him, which works out to his advantage most of the time.

“For the record, I didn't try to track you or anything. Figured if you wanted to run then that was your business. I wouldn't want anyone tracking me.”

He bows his head. “It is appreciated.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

After a moment's hesitation he adds, “As was the aid in my escape.”

“You kind of saved our asses, consider it payback.”

“Then your debt is repaid in full. What is the hour?”

There's a pause, in which he assumes Stark is checking his watch or phone or a clock on the wall.

“Four twenty-seven, why?”

He sighs. “I need to get back. This one has done a great deal for me and I'll not keep her longer than necessary.”

“Aww… no fun in the workshop?”

“No, I can't stay for whatever sort of convoluted fun you've dreamed up. Perhaps in a week or two, if I can find another horse.” Loki walks to the door, calling back to him briefly as he pushes it open. “Gott kvöld, Stark.”

“Bye, creepy girl-possessing weirdo!”

On the way back to the girl's house he stops to use one of the few payphones left in the area to once more call the tunnel-walker, asking him to bring a few things next time he's passing by. When he leaves her body (taking a bit to ground her and help her transition more easily back, considering the time he borrowed) and snaps back to his own, he's left with a killer migraine and generally feels like his mind has been scrambled and scattered. Thankfully, his supplies are brought promptly—which earns the man a hefty payment—and he takes a decent dose of painkillers and downs a couple sleeping pills. He's out cold within the half-hour, and falls into a thankfully peaceful slumber on his new pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horsing gods of the Norse pantheon:  
> http://www.northernshamanism.org/shamanic-techniques/spirit-possession.html
> 
> Fulltrui: Translates roughly to “trusted friend” or “fully trusted (one),” and indicates a certain level of closeness or devotion to a deity:  
> http://lairbhan.blogspot.com/2012/12/fulltrui-dedication-to-deity-in.html
> 
> Loki doesn't know A.I.M. is an acronym, having only just heard it, hence why it's spelled Aim from his point of view. Don't worry, I know it's not the correct way to write it.


	9. Sleep

Loki screams. The pain is sudden and unexpected—it's been longer than usual, and he'd nearly forgotten about it. Rage swells up unbidden in his chest as though it's trying to warm him against the cold of the tunnel and the ice seeping into his mind.

While he's still in control enough to do so, he grabs the roll of bandages and uses it to form a sort of gag. He can't control the shrieks, and he well knows that if someone were to hear (which would be likely considering the ever-present echoes), this is not a state that he'd like to be found in. It's not a perfect solution, but it should at least help to an extent.

Things progress in a similar fashion to the times before. Only the Norns will know how long he spends clawing at his hair and arms, and they'll not tell. His sanity slowly slips away until he's curled up in a ball, giggling.

With a cold that can freeze even a frost giant, the stabbing icicles spread from his chest outward and leave him shivering violently on the concrete despite his best efforts to stop. Worst of all are the glaciers that seem to cleave his mind in two—slow moving but persistent, carving deep gashes in their wake… and what feels like another presence filtering into his soul. Were it not for the certainty that none else were nearby, he could swear he can hear someone laughing darker than his vision in the distance.

_nonono not again stop please no, stop, hel– hjálp, vinsamlegast… Gera það að hætta, nei nei nei, ekki aftur, gera það að hætta-!_

His thoughts slip back into Low Asgardian, the English he'd been maintaining to make speech on Midgard easier forgotten in the wake of so complete an agony. He writhes, falling from the ledge onto the dirt below, and kicks out with enough force to leave a dent in the concrete. The gag does its job for the most part, although for a fleeting second a thought passes through his mind of the possibility it only makes it worse. The muffled sounds only serve to increase the pain of the wails hidden behind the fabric.

When he finds the strength and temporary control he heats one of his daggers with the lighter again, dropping it twice and having to relight the flame with shaking fingers, but eventually the blade reaches at least a slightly painful temperature and he drags it up his leg beside the old scars in order to take back control and focus on besides the ice.

As usual, it doesn't work.

His grip of the glamour Odin cast on his stolen babe weakens until he can no longer cling to it, and his skin reverses to revolting jötunn blue. Like the rest of this wasn't enough to already break him.

_skrímsli. þú ógeðslegur, hataði hlutur. dýrið án sálar…_

_NEI, NEI, FÁ ÚT-!_

Bleeding, broken, and bruised, Loki lies on the dank tunnel floor like a hound beaten after a failed hunt. The rough sounds of trains passing by don't register through the static that comprises his vision and hearing—it's as though his senses are both overloaded and completely deprived at the same time, and it terrifies him beyond anything he's felt before. If he doesn't wake up from it this time? He'll rot alone in the darkness as a feast for the rats. A fallen prince, a once-king, unloved and forgotten in the depths of Midgard's unforgiving city.

But if he can focus through the screams and convulsions, the tunnel-walker helped him get more painkillers. If he could just reach the bottle…

It takes far too long to do so, and even longer to open the thrice-cursed thing, but if there's even the tiniest chance that it will take the edge off then it's worth the effort.

He doesn't know if it's the pills or just his body giving out from exhaustion, but he finally falls unconscious.

The frost still creeps through his body in his sleep, and he can't fight it away.

*'*'*

Two months have passed since he last talked to Loki, which had been sixteen days after the god had first shown up in the girl's body (which was still really creepy) and the third time they'd spoken in that span. He'd looked like shit again, not unlike the day he'd found the god in the coffee shop a month or so ago and gone grocery shopping with him; that's still a strange memory. How the hell is this his life? Loki had seemed in slightly higher spirits, those times, though, in spite of how worn out he'd looked.

For reasons he doesn't want to think too hard on, he's come to enjoy the time they spend together. The god is brilliant and quick-witted, takes nobody's shit (there's a certain lab technician who will never harass women ever, _ever_ again), and curious to a fault. If someone had told Tony six months ago that hanging out with the god of mischief and chaos would be fun, well, he would have believed them—because come on, mischief and chaos—but then proceed to tell them they were crazy if they thought he'd actually do it. Turns out he really has, though, and has enjoyed every second of it that doesn't include not-entirely-empty threats to his life and personal safety.

It's probably stupid, all things considered, but he's starting to get a little worried. Sure, Loki could have been having a hard time finding another horse, or decided to move somewhere further away from what he seemed to think was the threat S.H.I.E.L.D. posed (and which he's seemed to have blown a bit out of proportion, all things considered). All the same, he'd seemed to have every intention to return again soon, to continue their debate on the fashion sense of whichever moron revamped Steve's suit to have scale mail all over the shoulders. It looks ridiculous, and while the god can't actually see it, the mental picture he's established has got to be hilarious. His input is priceless, and he has an extensive and interesting amount of knowledge when it comes to armor.

But he hasn't showed up since then, and Tony is bored. Again. Also slightly worried. For dumb reasons.

“Jarvis, how much do you think Loki would hate me if I decided to track him down?”

“Most likely a great deal, sir.”

“Awesome, pull up his phone records, past GPS data, and any of the security footage of him you stored on my private server while you were overwriting it in the public record.”

If he'd programed Jarvis to be able to sigh, the AI probably would have.

Cyan-bordered windows flicker up around him, presenting a barrage of information concerning everything Loki has done in the past three months since he'd first ran from the fight. It's not much—the god has hidden his tracks well—but he still left a few clues if one knew how to look for them.

First of all, Loki had showed him where he lived. That means that he can figure out his home phone number, and with that it's not difficult to steal the list of his calls from the phone company. Secondly, he wasn't invisible to cameras and doesn't know where their blind spots were since he can't see them, which lets Tony track his movements to an extent. So does the fact that he kept the GPS on most of the way, so even when he _did_ pass through a blind spot, it’s easy to find him. The god had also mentioned offhandedly that he had to be within a certain range for the whole demon-possession thing to work, and if that’s true (although, god of lies) then that helps zero in on where he could be judging from where he'd gone off-grid. From there, the approximate area of his location is significantly more specific.

There's one number Loki had called multiple times, from his cell phone, home phone, the girls' cell phones, and a pay phone. That was his number-one mistake.

Tony calls the number himself, and finds that the man was paid to keep his mouth shut. An impressive sum, at that.

As it so happens, though, Tony can pay even more. The man agrees to show him the way.

“What, you can't just tell me?”

The man laughs. “It wouldn't do you much good.”

They agree to meet at Grand Central station the next day; Tony brings a check, and the man brings two flashlights.

“I'm not responsible if you get killed,” he’s told. “This is one of the more dangerous places I've gone, and you come at your own risk. Got it?”

He scoffs. “Oh, please. I fight super-villains on a weekly basis; I laugh in the face of danger.”

“If you say so.”

Thirteen minutes pass in which they just stand against the wall, and he becomes increasingly bored and irritated. “Come on, no time like the present! I'm growing old over here. Grey hair is only so classy.”

“Unless you want to get caught by the police, I suggest you wait.”

Tony huffs and crosses his arms, but shuts up for another seven long minutes. Seemingly nothing changes, but suddenly he's being dragged toward a gate that says in bright, bold letters, “DANGER: DO NOT ENTER.” That doesn't slow the man down, so Tony doesn't bother stopping either. He's handed a flashlight, told to stay quiet, and not fall off the ledge if he doesn't want to die a painful death.

Awesome.

Glancing around the arched tunnel he realizes that, yeah, this is pretty damn dangerous. Whoops.

The more he thinks about it, the more pieces fit together. “Oh, Loki, you clever thing…” he whispers. If the god hadn't told him so much about himself—not that it was an awful lot, but enough to track him with—there was no way he would have even considered him fleeing down here. The sound of his breath echoes through the darkness, and he shivers.

He's so caught up in staying on the ledge and not ending up twitching and smoking on the third rail that he doesn't catch the rumble behind them at first.

 _“Run!”_ The man takes off.

Tony follows close behind, heart pounding in a way it never has before. That noise is definitely getting closer, and it hasn't taken him long to figure out what it is.

The man taps the edge of a indent in the concrete as he runs past it, and shouts. “Get in!”

He doesn't stop to question, hoping he doesn't get turned into scrambled human breakfast food, and the other sprints to a space further down. The tunnel grows progressively brighter and he flattens himself as much as possible against the wall while the train barrels past. Even bracing himself against the sides, the pressure difference still threatens to pull him out and against the train. How did Loki even manage to get down here without being killed?

When it's passed, he has to take a moment to breathe and stop freaking out because _holy shit that was close._ Now he gets why the guy said this was risky. How the hell is the bastard so composed right now?

His heart is pounding in his chest for the rest of the journey until the thin strip they'd been moving across opens up into the entrance of a pump room. His guide looks back and forth across the track, then points at it.

“See that rail there? Don't touch it.” Without any further ado, he jumps down onto the track and walks calmly across, taking care to avoid the strip of fiery (okay not really, more like smoky) death.

After a moment of hesitation, Tony follows. He's never really thought about it before, but staring at something so innocuous while knowing exactly what will happen if you touch it by mistake is ridiculously terrifying. It's with a great deal of caution that he steps over it. On the other side are a couple stairs up, and a yawning void of darkness.

The man gestures down the hall. “There you go. Grand Central trolley loop.”

“How far have we come?”

“About a block, block and a half.”

 _”What?”_ There is no way it's only been a block. More like six, at least.

“We started under Lexington Avenue, now we're under Park. It's kind'a steep, so give or take a little bit for that. You need anything else?”

Tony considers for a moment. “To get out, do I just go up the hill back East?”

“Uh-huh.”

Considering it's Loki he's dealing with… maybe it would be better not to throw another person into the mix. God only knows what the hell he's up to down here. If getting back above ground is just a straight shot from here, then there's not much use keeping the guy around anyway. He hands him a check for a few thousand dollars.

“Nah, I'm good. Go buy yourself something fancy.”

It's disconcerting how dark it is down here, and imagining anyone hiding down here is a scary thought. Then again, the god is blind, so it probably doesn't matter either way. Personally, he's starting to get a bit claustrophobic, and is actively trying to forget certain past events. He casts the flashlight beam around the abandoned tunnel, getting a feel for the size.

_Underground lair. I so called it._

“Loki?” His voice echoes in an incredibly disconcerting way, but once it fades there’s nothing but silence. Wandering around, he calls out a few more times, but is met with only nothingness response. Then again, this little hole in the ground isn't exactly somewhere he can see the god happily inhabiting… It's stuffy, dank, and freezing cold, a fact not helped by the temperatures this late into December. It feels like he's wandered into one of the walk-in freezers back in the R&D labs that they have for temperature-sensitive chemicals.

After another eerily quiet minute, just when he's about to turn back and try to find where else the crazy maybe-ex super-villain could have hidden himself away, the beam of his flashlight illuminates a backpack and cane. So this _is_ his lair! Kind of a dreary place. When he turns around, he finally finds Loki.

The god is lying prone, tangled in a blanket with his long black hair fanned out behind him. At first Tony assumes he's asleep, but once he gets closer it only takes a moment to realize that's not the case.

“Loki?” He's cold and clammy, pale even for him. It's more than a little frightening to see the god, who'd been thrown around by Bruce and come out with a couple scratches, so weak and helpless. Even blind, Loki was a force to be reckoned with, which they'd all seen firsthand when he jumped into the fray a few months ago. Now, though? He's barely breathing. Tony glances around, searching for–

“Lunesta, huh? Fair enough… how the _hell_ did you get your hands on morphine?”

Considering the crowd he hung out with as a kid and the sort of parties he used to frequent, Tony knows the look of a drug overdose.

He just never thought he'd see it on a god.

Fuck.

Getting back up to the station unseen and in one piece is going to be hard enough, so how the hell is he supposed to drag Loki along with him? Because he's not leaving him down here to die, and they need to get out of here pronto if the god's going to have any sort of chance.

He takes a moment to collect his thoughts, grabs his cell, and inches as far away from the abandoned tunnel as he dares. Down here, even _his_ phones don't have great service. He makes hhis way back to the trolley loop and runs his fingers through his hair in agitation. There's got to be  _some_ way to get a message out… Oh. Of course. The trains have wifi. Sure, they're hurtling past pretty quickly, but all he needs to do is send twenty-four characters.

_J: stp 7 trn w; 3 rl off_

He finishes typing just as a train flies past, and thanks to some brilliant engineering when it came to his phone (not to stroke his own ego, or anything) the text goes through.

Given the upload speed of the train's connection, Jarvis' processing time, and the stopping power of an R188 (thank whoever's listening for automated trains), it should take about thirty-four seconds to guarantee their safety. That's just enough time to figure out how the hell to pick up a guy who's 6' 2” and ridiculously heavy for how skinny he looks.

Tony folds up the cane, throws it in the backpack, and slings the bag over his shoulder. It's a bit of a trick to untangle the blanket from the god's legs, and seriously, how did he even manage that? When he has, though, he drapes it back over him, balances the flashlight a bit awkwardly on his stomach, and, with a good deal of effort, manages to lift Loki into his arms. Damn, it's a good thing he works out. Even as strong as he is, this is going to be painful.

Possibly the worst part is that it's literally all uphill from here, and a very steep hill at that. Hauling the god up is a battle that feels endless, even though he knows now how short a distance it really is. He forces himself to move quickly knowing that time is precious, and calls out to Jarvis now that he's far enough out to have signal.

“Jarv, when I get out of here, I'm going to need a distraction. I don't have time for people asking questions.”

“Is there anything particular you have in mind?” comes the AI's voice from his pocket.

“Couldn't care less. And get Happy to the nearest Grand Central door, pronto. Emergency exits work.”

“Of course, sir.”

His mind is moving a mile a minute, figuring out a course of action for once he gets out of the terminal. From a medical standpoint, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s the way to go. They've got the facilities and training for shit like this. Then again, handing over a war criminal—although he's always been a little iffy on that title, since technically Loki hasn't committed any war crimes and the ethics of the whole mind-control thing have been debated about for decades—essentially into the Council's hands is something that he'll probably feel guilty about for a while afterwards.

There's always a normal hospital, but that'll last about three minutes before they realize something's up and then S.H.I.E.L.D. will be on them anyway in no time.

Tony scowls. Government.

Part of him wants to call Bruce, because he has basic medical training, but he's halfway around the world saving babies and kittens or whatever it is he's doing. He's got a personal doctor, because he trusts S.H.I.E.L.D. even less than he does the Avengers, but that would take too long.

It's all on him.

Fantastic.

Well, to be honest, if there wasn't a choice he'd take the god to Fury, except there is since he's dealt with overdoses before. More than once, actually. What that says about his life probably isn't good.

After such complete darkness, the piercing white of the fluorescents is blinding. “Jarvis? Now would be a really great time for something crazy to happen.”

Seven seconds after he asks, while he's pushing open the gate to get back out onto the platform, the fire alarms start blaring at what has to be a higher decibel than they're meant to. Everyone starts scrambling towards the doors in a panic, and the officers and guards who had been standing around are trying to create some sort of orderly fashion. It's not working.

It's a good cover, though, because nobody's paying attention to them. He slips into the crowd while chaos does the rest. If Loki were awake right now he'd be having the time of his life, but instead Tony's arms are in more pain than they've been in a long time, and when he finally reaches the car Happy brought he's wondering how he managed to carry the god at all.

“Tony, what's going on? Jarvis didn't tell me.”

Oh, right. He'd told Jarvis not to mention anything about Loki back when they'd first started hiding the surveillance footage.

“Overdose.” He lies Loki down in the backseat and climbs in beside him, pulling the god's head into his lap. “Get back to the tower, pronto. Laws are for losers.”

“What?”

“Tower. Fast. _Now.”_

“Gotcha, boss.”

Who do gods pray to? _Do_ they pray? He vaguely remembers Thor mentioning something about that, but he was probably playing Abduction or something else mind-numbingly pointless. There are way too many team meetings. Well, if they do pray, then thank whoever that is that Happy is his driver—he knows all the shortcuts and isn't afraid to break speed limits when it matters.

The car screeches to a halt in the garage and Happy's at the door before he can even open it, ready to help get the god out and up to the penthouse. Thankfully he's not worn out from trekking uphill through a subway tunnel, because Tony's arms are going to be sore for a month after that. When they reach the doors to it, Jarvis has the elevator ready and waiting for them.

Has he ever mentioned how awesome his AI is? Because he's pretty awesome.

He made sure to grab the backpack as he got out of the car, so he has the bottles to figure out what the hell Loki's gotten himself into this time—the god seems to have a habit of doing extraordinarily stupid things in a really complicated, convoluted way. Damn the idiot to hell. This actually has Tony scared, and he doesn't scare easy.

Because is it just him, or is Loki's breathing getting weaker?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, not sorry.
> 
> Currently, the #7 fleet is comprised of R62A's, but the Metropolitan Transportation Authority has planned for their replacement with new automated R188's in the next year or so. Given the amount of time that's passed since the Battle of New York, the R188's would have been recent upgrades from the old models.


	10. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for that cliffhanger, guys. This chapter ended up being kind of long. Hopefully that makes up for it?
> 
> Please don't kill me for last chapter. I'M TOO EVIL TO DIE YOUNG.

While Happy gets Loki upstairs, Tony takes off toward Bruce's lab. The guy's got all sorts of crazy shit lying around and if he's really lucky…

For a guy as picky as Bruce can get, his cabinets are in an absolutely ridiculous state of disarray. How does the guy find anything in here? Granted, his own workshop is in a constant state of organized chaos, so he probably shouldn't talk… Searching through everything is going to take forever, and they don't have forever, so he asks Jarvis if he knows where things are. To be honest, the if isn't really necessary. Of course Jarvis knows where they are.

Arms full, Tony sprints back upstairs and into his bedroom, where Happy's arranged the god in recovery position.

“Thanks, buddy.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Initiate lockdown for this floor. I don't want anyone getting in without my say-so; your job is to make sure they don't. Got it?”

Happy nods and leaves, and a minute later he hears the lockdown procedures kick into gear. Right. Time to get to work.

He's not really a medical professional (at all), so there's some things he's just going to have to count on Loki's body to do itself. Add to that the fact that if he's anything like Thor then the guy's metabolism is absolutely ridiculous, so normal dosages are pointless.

How the hell does he get into these sort of situations? He really needs to reevaluate his life, at this rate.

Okay. Awesome. Plan time.

He sets up an oxygen mask to help his breathing, because it's really the best he can do at this point. All things considered, Loki's crazier than Brittany Spears and probably more likely to eat him than Hannibal Lecter, so he should probably restrain him. He doesn't have adamantium heated right now, though, and anything else will just spook the god and get Tony killed once he escapes. The suit's always an option, but last time Loki saw that he was being shipped off to Asgard for a really fucked-up trial or whatever happened. Dealing with a frightened Asgardian isn't something he has on his to-do list.

They'll just have to take it slow, then. Thankfully—although for what reasons he's got no idea, and it's probably best that way—Bruce had a store of Naloxone in his lab. Gods only know what he would have done otherwise, besides call Fury. With a rough estimation of a dose based on how much it took to get Thor drunk (it was for science, of course, definitely not because he was bored), he injects a bit and sits back to wait. Nothing noticeable changes and he has to remind himself to stay calm. He had gone with what should definitely be a safe dose, so there's room to titrate up and hope he can get a response.

Granted, there's the slight problem that there were two things Loki could have OD'ed on, but he's assuming it was both together. Better safe than sorry, right? If he can't get him at least semi-conscious with the Naloxone, though, he's going to have to call someone. This is a tech building, not a hospital or Oscorp—the sort of respirators they have are the kind to keep people from getting cancer, not to assist breathing, and he's pretty sure there aren't dialysis machines sitting around. He can probably rig up a makeshift IV if he has to, but it won't be pretty.

The next twelve minutes he spends in anxiety while he increases the dose of Naloxone a little at a time. Around the third injection the god's breathing starts to even out a bit, which is reassuring, because he's got better chance of dealing with a morphine overdose than an eszopiclone one. A couple minutes after the sixth, there's a loud thud as Tony jumps back and knocks his chair over, because _holy shit the guy can kick._

Loki tries to sit, but only manages to get about an inch off the pillow before that plan fails miserably. The trembling, which had mostly slowed to a stop, starts again with a vengeance and he wheezes painfully. It's not hard to tell when the god starts to panic, although his movements are made sluggish by what must be the sleeping meds. His breaths, while still shallower than normal, quicken to an alarming rate. Tony tries to get closer to calm him, but as soon as he starts to speak he's met with a terrifying amount of aggression. Right. Just gonna wait this out, then.

It's hard to say which scares him more—the part where Loki was dying, or the part now where he decides to live. Within a few minutes the god transforms from practically comatose to a wounded, cornered animal. An animal with really, really sharp cla– Where the hell did that knife come from?

The only reason he manages to duck in time is because the god's reactions are slowed—when he turns to look, the dagger is buried hilt-deep into the wall behind him.

Well shit.

“Loki. Loki, chill out man, it's me. Well, I'm not sure if that helps or not, actually, but I'm not planning on hurting you. Calm down and just try to breathe, because you haven't been doing much of it in the past hour or so.”

The god claws at the oxygen mask, tearing it off and crushing it in his grip, and in doing so loses the extra support to his lungs. It leaves him gasping even worse than before, but apparently isn't enough to keep him from lashing out again.

Back in the tunnel, Loki must not have been doing much talking. That might be a good thing, since extended conversations with himself would be a whole new level of crazy, but it means that when he tries to speak now it doesn't do much good—his voice is little more than a rasping croak. Shaking hands claw at the sheets with a death-grip as he moans.

“d-drepa-” he manages before retching. The god shudders and pulls his knees up further. Tightening his hold, he tries again. “komast burt frá mér!” It's a strangled, forced sound, but more than he'd said before. Not that it helps Tony much, since he can't understand a word of it.

“Uh, Jarvis? You happen to know Asgardian?”

“Considering that there is no known record of such a language on Earth, I do not.”

Dammit. Of course not.

“But I _am_ able to translate Icelandic.”

The voice only serves to startle the god further, who snarls.

“Does that help us?”

“I would not have mentioned it if it did not.”

Tony sighs. “Then mind skipping the condescending talk and just telling me what he's saying?”

“d-deyja-…” The Asgardian’s speech is slurred, and followed by a pained moan.

“I believe he's making threats to kill you, sir.”

Oh.

Yeah.

It’s Loki.

He rubs the bridge of his nose, sighs, and looks back at the god shivering on his bed.

“Fantastic.”

Loki hardly looks in a state to kill anyone, but the knife in his wall says otherwise. The longer they wait, though, the worse the poisoning's going to get if he OD'ed on the sleeping meds too. So… risk his own life, or find out the hard way if the god's done something remarkably stupid?

Judging from how he's acting, the chances of said stupidity are pretty high. Damn him to hell.

Tearing open a package of activated charcoal, he grabs a glass of water from the bathroom and mixes the powder in. When he gets back, the god's exactly how he left him.

“Loki…” he says quietly, trying to keep from spooking him again. He's still having trouble breathing, which isn't a good sign. Tony sets the glass on the nightstand. God, what do people say to sick people? Bedside manner has never really been a talent of his. At all.

“Hey, man, you look like shit.”

Okay, maybe that wasn't fantastic, but he's trying. He's not the sort to say 'it's going to be alright' when it's not a guarantee, because people like that piss him off. Lies aren't exactly comforting.

“I'm not going to hurt you, Loki,” he speaks as soothingly as possible, remembering how Pepper had after he'd woken up from surgery, “I'm trying to help.” Gingerly he reaches out, ready to jump back if the god lashes out again, and rests a hand on his arm.

Loki flinches, his breath catching in his throat, but thankfully doesn't try to kill him. Score. Tony rubs his arm gently in an attempt to calm him down.

“Think you can sit up for a minute? I need you to drink this, it'll help.”

That earns him a confused look. “h-hvað…?”

“Sitting. Up. The thing you do when you drink so you don't spill black stuff over my pretty white sheets.”

The god looks up at him blankly.

Really?

“hv- hvers vegna ert þú…”

A pause, and the silence in the room is practically tangible. What happened to Shakespeare? Awkward.

Loki gasps and moans again, reminding Tony of the urgency of the situation, and he sighs. Fine, screw everything. Nobody's dying today.

Somehow his shoelaces have gotten tangled, and he fights with them a few moments before giving up and just pulling his sneakers off without untying them. He can deal with the problem later. Normally, he'd try to find something not covered in dust and dirt before sitting on his bed, but it's already too late considering the fact that the god's spent months in a subway tunnel and the sheets are already a lost cause. One benefit of having a huge bed (among others which aren't currently relevant) is that there's enough room for him to comfortably sit beside the god on his other side, so he carries the glass to the opposite nightstand and climbs in next to him.

“Alright, Blitzen, you listening? I need to get this in you before that shit shuts you down permanently. C'mon, up you go.”

Loki remains a silhouette against the bed, curled in on himself from pain, for defense, or both. Tony sighs and tries to indicate that he wants him to sit. To the god's credit, he does seem to try, but for all the strength in his attacks he's still remarkably weak. When it becomes clear that Loki isn't going to be able to manage himself, he helps, and finds him surprisingly cooperative considering his behavior a few minutes ago. A minute or two of struggling sees the pair of them sitting against the headboard, the god leaning on his shoulder for support, and Tony with the glass in one hand attempting to convince the god to drink. Naturally, the stubbornness has reared its head again.

It doesn't make sense at first—he's gotta be thirsty as hell judging from how hard it is for him to talk—but then it clicks.

Asgard. It might be a world of honor and battle, but the way that Thor always inspects his glass before drinking from it suggests that it might not be the case for everyone. Going head-to-head with the god of thunder is pretty much a death wish… but slipping something into his drink could be a quite effective to off the prince.

“It's not poisoned, Loki…” How can he prove that, though, when he can't show by example and drink some himself? There's no good way to get the point across that doesn’t require Loki seeing him, or at least speaking basic English.

Just for the record, isn't it a little ironic that he's concerned about poison when he's already poisoned himself? Stupid aliens and their stupid thoughts.

“Jarvis?” Tony pulls out his phone and enters the password. “Can you show me how to say 'Trust me, I'm a friend, I'm trying to help?'” Glowing text flashes across his screen, and he stares.

“What the hell is that? That's not even a letter!” Well, it's worth a try, right? With a very confused look on his face, he attempts, “Traystu mer, egg er viner. Egg er ad rayna ad hujalpa.”

Okay, that sounded nothing like the fancy, fluid language Loki had spoken to him back in the café. So much for that plan.

The god’s eyes flick up, though, a heartrending expression crossing his features that Tony can't quite decipher. “s-særir…”

Loki's hand is shaking when he takes it in his own, so Tony keeps a hold of the glass along with him while he drinks. The Asgardian barely bats an eye at what he's pretty sure is an awful taste, although a moment later he cries out and would have fallen back onto the mattress were it not for the fact that Tony catches him. The glass looks like it’s going to be stained black for the rest of eternity, but thankfully only a little bit went over the side. It'll leave a ring on the nightstand.

He wraps an arm around the god to help support him through the tremors, and Loki has the exact opposite response he did earlier—instead of flinching away, he presses closer into the contact and lets out a pained noise.

“Loki?”

“þurfa lyf, særir það…” the god whimpers, “vinsamlegast gefa mér lyf?”

“Sorry?”

Jarvis finally decides to pipe up and translate, his voice far calmer than either of the men's. “He is asking for medicine, sir.”

“I think there's acetaminophen in the medicine cabinet. That doesn't interfere, does it? I don't think so, but I can't remember.”

Loki clutches his shirt and looks up desperately. “vinsamlegast, láttu mig hafa lyfið mitt, ég vil sársaukann til að fara í burtu.”

“I don't think that's the sort of medicine he's seeking,” Jarvis informs him.

“You mean…” Tony's heart sinks. “Fuck. Loki, what the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

*'*'*

_soft, comfortable… soft…_

_no. nonononono, notcold not safe, changed? scFIGHTared, bad, PAIN! danger danger tired danger, no–!_

_moved? tired… different, loud noise- loud, loud, loudrun run! move, fight, run can't– air, needaircan't–_

_voi–? voice! person, danger, not safe, movemovemove fi-PAIN-ght! metal, dagger– scared, fight fight FIGHT!_

_noise, loud– loud voice, not safe, getoffface– a-air, need air, b-breathe, air– fight fight killkillk-PAIN-ill–! sleep…_

_nononoFIGHTscared–! PAIN PAIN scared–water? Water–! thirstywaterthirstythirs–voice scared PAIN scared tired–_

_tired, scared– water? water… thirsty– voiPAINce? ScaredscaredSCARED-!_

_hide run hide PAIN medicine? tired…_

_scared, voice? cold– sound person voice? confusedCONFUSED scared–_

_PAIN_

_perso– person? voice noise medicine person PERSON voice? PERSON MOVE water! waterthirsty water POISON POISON SCARED thirsty…_

_voice… voice? scare- VOICETALKWORDSWORDSWORDS safe voice water voic– WATER! notwater, not water? thirsPAINty NOTWATER safe voice notwatPAINer PAIN PAIN SCARED PAIN–!_

_PAIN PAIN PA– person safe SAFE PERSON SAFE SAFE safe pain scared SAFEvoice…_

_name?_

_PAINPAIN voiPAINce medicine PAIN PAIN PAIN medicinemedicinemediPAINcine– scaredsafescared voice badvoice scared PAIN–…_

_voice voice tired PAIN medicine voice pain…_

*'*'*

Tony smoothes back the god's sweat-soaked hair, tucking a stray lock back behind his ear. It hurts to see him like this—so broken and defeated. So _scared._ He's nothing like the terrifying, feral creature that walked through their world in total confidence, not anymore.

Loki keeps the charcoal down for ten minutes at most, and after that it becomes an uphill battle to keep him hydrated and pull what poison's left from his system. It's becoming more and more clear that he overdosed on both the morphine and the sleeping meds, and between the two he's absolutely miserable. Tony ends up finding a pitcher of water to keep on the nightstand so he doesn't have to get up too much, and after a long and arduous one-sided argument manages to convince the Asgardian to take a few ibuprofen in hopes that it will help at least take a bit of the edge off. The unsteadiness and dizziness from the eszopiclone mean that Loki quickly gives up on sitting upright and instead curls up with his head in Tony's lap.

That bit's a little unexpected—once the god seems to accept that he's not a threat, he's suddenly clingy as hell—but once he settles he doesn’t act quite as panicked. There still seems to be a language barrier, which is weird, and serves to remind him that Loki really isn't human. Even if Jarvis can interpret most of it from Icelandic and what knowledge remains of Old Norse, it's still not perfect and a lot more difficult than speaking to him directly. It makes him kind of sad, too, after having begun to enjoy hanging out and laughing at people. Fury will so kill him if he ever hears about that. Tony's still not entirely sure how S.H.I.E.L.D.'s doing on that front, or what they'd do with the god if they _did_ manage to get their sticky government fingers on him… the guy's still pretty pissed about Coulson, as in murderous–rage pissed, so it can’t be anything fun. Probably nothing compared to Asgard's shit, though. Loki hasn't said much about it, but from what he can see it was pretty fucked up.

Even knowing that Loki can't understand him, he still talks to him—partially to fill the silence, and partially because when he does, Loki relaxes a little. The god stares out into space, thinking god knows what, and he watches Loki wondering how the hell they both got here.

“Hey, Jarvis, put on some music, will you?” He looks down at the man shivering in his lap. “Something classical. With violins.”

Pachelbel's Canon in D Major starts to play quietly (in full surround sound, because his room obviously comes with the whole deal), and when the latest bout of retching has subsided Loki tilts his head to look up towards him.

“takk,” he whispers with a pained expression, his voice still too unused to make speech comfortable.

“Jarv?”

His AI speaks just loud enough to be heard over the music. “He says thank you, sir.”

Tony nods. “No problem.”

Not much time passes before the god is heaving again, eyes closed and clawing at the sheets. It's been long enough since the last time he drank that there's nothing to throw up, but it still looks painful. He wishes he had something to tie the Asgardian's hair back with—it's grown quite a bit in the past few months and is more than a little unruly—but it's not something he usually carries and he doesn't want to get up for a little while. It’ll be easier to get everything he wants at once, when he figures out what that is.

It's pretty clear by now that whatever happened, this isn't the first time that Loki's taken either of the drugs. This is just the beginning of withdrawal, and it's going to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets better. The first part, when he'd found him after the overdose (and it was only some really incredible luck that had gotten him there in time), he's done before. He's kept people stable until they could get to the hospital. This bit, though? Being here though the detox? That’s a new one, and it’s horrible to watch. The stories he's heard don't do it justice.

“viltu l-láta mig taka lyf? ég a-all-llt í lagi, þ-þá ...”

Once again, the god is begging for another dose to dull the pain, and it's just as well that he'd reached the end of the bottles. Even if he manages to get up, there's nothing left to take. Tony sure as hell can't go through this twice, and he can't even imagine being Loki right now.

The scariest part is that if things had gone a little differently—if Obadiah hadn't tried to kill him and he hadn't spent three months in a cave inching toward death—he could be Loki right now. Except, if that hadn't happened, he wouldn't have started dating Pepper. He wouldn't have gotten any closer to Rhodey, he never would have met Bruce, and he wouldn't have become part of the Avengers. He wouldn't have ever known Loki as more than some crazy guy who destroyed the city.

And even if he managed to quit before he OD'ed, he'd be doing this alone.

Fuck.

It's hard to say which would be worse—the cave or the detox—but if these are just the early stages then he's going to have to say the detox. At least good things came out of Afghanistan with him.

He might not be the best at bedside manner or making good decisions, but as far as he knows, he's the only guy Loki really has for shit like this.

Responsibility is not his strong suit. This will definitely be interesting, to say the least.

The god's symptoms slowly worsen, and he decides that it's worth getting up this time. Loki whines at the loss of contact, but otherwise doesn't bother moving. In the meantime, Tony collects a couple snacks in case he can keep something down, a jug of Gatorade, new clothes and sheets since he's sweating so badly, and a hair tie of Pepper's that he finds in the bathroom.

“Hey, buddy.” It would be infinitely helpful if Loki would start speaking English again, but since that doesn't seem likely he makes due with a terribly-played one-man game of charades. He manages to get to a chair beside the bed (although the eszopiclone's still making him dizzy and unstable), and Tony hands him clothes to change into while he makes the bed. A few minutes later, Loki crawls back onto the bed and he returns with a cool towel to try and provide at least a little semblance of comfort for him.

“Jarvis, can you find an Icelandic movie to listen to? A comedy or something.”

The AI offers a few options and he decides on something called _Sódóma Reykjavík,_ which apparently is about some kid trying to find the remote control so his mom can watch TV, which somehow escalates into a liquor smuggler vs. wannabe-mafia-boss showdown. It sounds absolutely ridiculous, and he's got no idea how high the writer must have been to come up with that, but hopefully it's funny to some extent and will help take Loki's mind off his current situation.

Judging from his reactions over the next hour and a half (which alternate between snickering and looking increasingly concerned for the human race), the movie is pretty hilarious and entirely nonsensical. With only the audio playing it's kind of hard to tell, but what matters is that the god isn't bored out of his mind. He, on the other hand, is finally convinced that Loki isn't going to just kick the bucket, and so pulls up holograms of the new StarkPhone design to poke around at. Somewhere around the halfway point Loki starts yawning as his body tries to increase his oxygen intake, which means Tony ends up yawning too. Damn god.

Not long after the movie stops, the god starts fidgeting—partially a compulsive part of the detox, and partially just playing with the sheets out of sheer boredom. Tony figured that would happen eventually, and he's kind of surprised it took this long. Thinking of something for him to do is kind of difficult, since his default responses are all dependent on visuals, but he gets an idea and starts digging through the draws of the nightstand (which is met with much irritated protest as the god's pillow disappears). He comes back with a Rubik's cube and a tube of superglue.

“Right, so this is probably going to be ten times harder than if you could see, but that's probably a good thing if the Lunesta's wearing off.” He marks the squares on each side with different symbols so that Loki can feel the difference, lets him get a feel for it, then takes it again, scrambling it in as complicated a manner as he knows how, and hands it back to the god. It doesn't take him long to figure out the point, and the twitching in his hands that Tony's noticed on and off every since they met seems to have stopped for the time being.

The puzzle takes a bit longer than expected to be solved, which he puts down to the effects of the sleeping pills. They seem to be wearing off, but the god's still a little more out of it than he would be if it was just morphine withdrawal. When he finishes, Loki sits up, throws the cube at him, and stretches. To be honest, it's surprising that he hasn't gotten sore already—Tony's legs fell asleep ages ago and his back is killing him. He uses the opportunity to stand up and pace a little, trying to ease the ache.

Loki stares in his direction intently, and it makes his skin crawl.

“ég er orðin leið þig.”

Jarvis translates, sounding a little more amused that he really should be. “He says he loathes you, sir.”

“Really? After I've been your pillow for– Jarvis, what time is it?”

“A little after midnight. Would you like me to display a clock?”

“Ah… no, probably not. I'll just watch it and think time's crawling along like Pepper's nephew. Anyway, Loki, after I've been your pillow for seven hours? That is a _really_ long time. Especially for us little mortals. I'm hurt.”

The god just glares. Tony rolls his eyes and goes on a hunt for something he'll snack on—the saltines had been turned away instantly and the rice he'd made (after overcooking it and having to try again) he'd only eaten a few reluctant bites of. Seriously, he's ridiculously picky.

Don't even ask about his reaction to gatorade.

Remembering their trip to the store, he starts checking ingredients, and just… wow. What the hell is this stuff, anyway? Considering how he eats when he's in the workshop, it's probably better for him than engine grease and antifreeze. Trying to find food for Loki, though, is a nightmare. Everything's got some sort of enriched something or other, which is the only thing in the bread that he could have found issue with earlier. In the end Tony manages to collect applesauce, yogurt, and a couple bananas. Bruce might have something downstairs, but he can find it later.

Turns out the Asgardian was actually pretty hungry, because once he finds something he'll eat it's all Tony can do to keep him from inhaling it.

“meira.”

“What?”

Loki scowls and points toward the empty containers. “mat. fá mér meira.”

“He wants more food.”

“Thanks, Jarv. I don't have any more, though, Loki. Unless you want rice, which you didn't seem to before.”

Obviously understanding the lack of food, if not the words themselves, the god glares. It's made slightly less effective by how often he's yawning and the fact that he looks absolutely awful, but still a little scary. With a sigh, Tony goes back out to find something else for him. All that's left is some tea that Pepper bought, but he supposes it's better than nothing. He can make it without destroying anything, too. That's always a bonus.

He returns to find a distinct lack of chaos god. Dammit all. Setting the tea on the nightstand he goes looking, and finds him in the bathroom feeling through the medicine cabinet. It's Tony's turn to glare, and he turns it up to maximum, wishing yet again that the god could see.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing? You took a couple bottles’ worth of pills already, and you see where it's gotten you. Out. _Now.”_ He points back toward the bed for his own benefit, and Loki stalks back to it with a huff. Apparently the sleeping meds really _are_ wearing off, and now the god's decided to be irritating as hell. If they were in the other's position, though, Tony probably would too. Still, he chucks a box of tissues at the god a little harder than normal. It's hardly going to hurt him, but hopefully the message gets through.

He climbs back onto the bed, where Loki's sitting with his back turned and arms crossed.

“I swear to god, if you start throwing a tantrum I'll throw you out the window.”

Apparently he's not listening, so Tony whacks him in the head with the towel.

“Don't think that just because you're sick that I won't do it.”

“láta mig í friði. ég hata þig.”

“Leave me alone, I hate you,” Jarvis translates.

Really?

“Okay, yeah, tantrum. How old are you, six?”

Loki pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging them and ignoring him.

“fara í burtu.”

“Did you just insult me? That sounded like an insult.”

“He said 'go away.' I'm not sure that quite qualifies as an insult, sir.”

“Do I look like I speak crazy god? Last time I looked in the mirror, I don't think I did.”

Said crazy god just curls in on himself more, and Tony sighs. “Loki…”

“ég finn eins og skít. bara láta mig í friði eða ég skera hendurnar af.”

Hey, that's the most the guy's said all night. That's a good sign, isn't it?”

“He says that he feels like shit and if you don't leave him alone he'll cut your hands off.”

Oh. Okay. Mixed sign, then. Good that he's acting a little more like himself, and a little scary considering the guy keeps knives up his sleeves. On the plus side, he got Jarvis to swear, which is a lot funnier than it should be. Tony's definitely been in this room too long.

Loki pulls a few of the blankets from the bottom of the bed and curls up underneath them so he's completely out of sight.

Holy shit, the guy's such a kid. And a petulant one at that.

Tony decides to pull up the holograms again before he gets bored enough to do something really stupid that will get him killed by the moody, restless, runny-nosed god.

“Buck it up, Rudolph. I know you're able to. And I swear to whoever matters that if you give up then I'll drag you back from hell to kill you myself. Got it?”

“þegja,” comes the muffled voice.

Jarvis pipes up again to let him know the god says to shut up.

He's impossible.

“Loki, stop being an asshole.”

No response besides the shivering. After a little while, the silence gets uncomfortable again.

“Come on, I made you tea and everything. Unless you want coffee, because Jarvis makes a mean espresso, but that probably won't be good on your stomach.”

The blanket pile shifts slightly. “te og kaffi…?” it asks.

Oh, hey, something that sort of translates! “Well, tea right now, although it's going to get cold at this rate.”

Loki sits up, and the blankets and attitude suddenly make a lot more sense when he catches the god wiping away tears. Right… shit's getting worse. He acts like nothing's happened, though, so Tony does the same and nudges his hand with the mug of tea. The god takes it gratefully.

“Takk.”

Wait, is he thanking him again? This must be some sort of record or something.

Wrapped up in his cocoon of blankets, Loki sips at the drink with a sigh of relief. Tea is good. Saving that memo for later.

Toward the end he winces, and feels around for a place to put the mug on the nightstand; Tony takes it and sets it down for him. Loki fidgets, unable to get comfortable, then throws the blankets off and sprawls out on the other side of the bed.

“You good?”

The god just shivers and turns over, curling in on himself. After a few minutes, he whispers brokenly, “h-hvers vegna ert þú að gera þetta t-til mín? hvers v-vegna ertu að meiða m-mig?”

“He says–“

Tony sighs. “Can you just send shit to my phone? It'll be ten times easier than having you repeat everything…”

Jarvis agrees, and a written translation appear on his phone screen.

He sort of wishes it hadn't.

_Why are you doing this to me? Why are you hurting me?_

Is that really what the god thinks is happening? Not completely, considering how he's been acting, but come to think of it—does this sort of thing happen on Asgard? Do people go through withdrawals? Obviously it's possible, since here they are, but that doesn't mean the other planet has drugs that would cause them.

If not, then this must be terrifying for Loki.

“I'm trying to help you, Rudolph. I know it feels like shit now, but you'll thank me later.” Seriously, though, what happened to the schmancy English? He could ask Jarvis to translate for him, but every time the computer pipes up Loki flinches away. It's weird, but he doesn't think too much on it since it's not really important right now. What's important is getting the guy through this in as few pieces as possible.

Has he suddenly taken on responsibilities other than shooting repulsor beams at bad guys? Why yes, yes he has. It's a bit out of his usual character, but the whole overdose thing has freaked him out a little.

Okay, maybe a lot.

Loki stands on shaky legs and starts pacing the area he's learned is clear, eyes shut and breathing obviously controlled.

He watches him for a moment, getting concerned. “…Loki?”

The god's head snaps up. “ís.”

White letters appear on his screen.

_Ice._

“Wait, what?”

“í huga mín-mínum, ísinn er að fá upp í h-huga minn–“ He cringes and a whimper slips through his carefully crafted façade.

_In my mind. The ice is getting into my mind._

Chaos god say what, now?

 _“t-takk,_ bara fá m-mér meira verkjalyf. Þú ert að d-drepa mig, ég þarf þa-það til að hætta…”

_**Please,** just give me more painkillers. You're killing me, I need it to stop…_

Tony sighs. “No, Loki.”

The god pales noticeably, and flinches back from the words. Does he even want to know? Probably not, actually, now that he thinks about it.

A few minutes later, Loki crawls back onto the bed in exhaustion. Tony finds a new towel and helps wipe the sweat off his brow, and the god closes his eyes for a minute before looking back toward him (well, over his shoulder, he tends to miss a bit) desperately.

“v-vinsamlegast…”

_Please…_

God, this is painful.

He turns to kneel behind the god, pulling his hair up into a ponytail like Pepper taught (or tried to teach) him. It takes a few tries, but he manages something vaguely resembling one. Hey, it keeps the hair out of his face, so it works. Deciding to take advantage of the time while Loki's _not_ trying to kill or maim him, he rubs his shoulders (another thing Pepper taught him—has he mentioned she's awesome?). The god immediately tenses, a shudder wracking his body, but he leans back into it after a moment.

“er allt mannkyn svo sorglegt og veikburða?”

Tony glances down at his phone and can't help but laugh.

_Is all of humankind so pathetically weak?_

He hits the god's shoulder jokingly. “Asshole.” After that he does stop being so gentle, though, remembering the difference in their strength. “For pete's sake, Loki, relax a bit! I didn't even know it was _possible_ to be this tense. I'd make a joke about a string, but since you wouldn't understand it, it won't be funny.”

Slowly— _very_ slowly—the god does start to relax. Definitely not completely, but he goes from breaking-the-laws-of-physics tense to just holy-shit-man-I’m-concerned-for-your-health tense. At least it’s some sort of improvement. What surprises him, though, is that Loki becomes noticeably less wary of his every move. So, tea and massages? No, it's tea, massages, classical music, and weird-ass Icelandic comedies. Who'da thunk? Apparently he also likes truffles, too, since he stole one of his back in the coffee shop… unless it was just to spite him. Which is completely possible.

He’s anxious, though, and has been for hours—more so now that the drowsiness is starting to wear off. As it does, all the more psychological symptoms are starting to show as his awareness increases. Little things start to frustrate him more, especially how his body is reacting to the sudden lack of morphine, and he jumps at things Tony barely even notice—the heat switching on, an ambulance siren in the distance, a bag of crackers rustling slightly when the bed shifts. It’s driving him crazy, and Tony knows it. Sometimes the god will stare out into space and tear up, and others he’ll zone out completely. Right now Loki’s curled up at the end of the bed, shivering again, and cocooned in blankets.

He whispers something softly, but Jarvis picks it up and sends it wordlessly to Tony’s phone.

_I'm scared…_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a little fluff before I break your heart again. Well, not entirely fluff, but it's fluffier than next chapter. Sorry in advance.
> 
> Well, not really that sorry; I promise the pain will be worth it.
> 
> “Remote Control” (“Sódóma Reykjavík”) is actually a real, honest to god movie. That is the actual premise. Not even I can come up with stuff that crazy.  
> http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0108176/


	11. Panic

Everything hurts. _Everything._ His arm aches, his back is sore, he can’t stay still for the life of him, and it’s _cold._ Can’t he just go back to the tunnel? It was quiet, safe… Now there’s another person, and not enough air, and a voice that he can’t quite place but is wrong somehow and everything’s so loud.

Where is he? It’s not home, home is comfortable and smells like the incense he burns as an offering. This is soft, too soft—he sinks down into the… bed? It feels like a bed, and there are blankets. If something happens he can’t run as quickly, there’s no good leverage.. Home is safe. The tunnel was safe. Here is _not safe._ Here is bad for escaping.

_Run, run, run, hide._

The man doesn’t speak Asgardian, is… mortal? Familiar. Not dangerous, but not safe either. Everything hurts, and here is _not safe._

_Hurt. Run, hide._

But nowhere’s safe. Wait, no, why would he think that, when he has an apartment and a tunnel– nonono, not safe. Something about them isn’t safe.

He’s so, so tired, but can’t sleep. Needs to move, move, run, move. Everything hurts, make it stop…

*’*’*

At some point in the night he must have fallen asleep, because he wakes to the god sweating heavily and crying.

“Loki?”

Fuck, this is a lot worse than last night. The guy’s got an insane amount of control and kept it relatively together yesterday, but it’s the full-out sobs that give away just how bad he’s doing.

“m-maga sárt. illa.” he says, clenching his teeth in an attempt to suppress the tears now that Tony had awoken. He’s sitting crosslegged, head down and arms wrapped around his stomach, trying to keep from rocking back and forth. It’s not really working. Looking desperately towards where Tony sits, he asks brokenly, “hvers vegna er það meiða svo mikið? ég skil ekki–…”

_Why does it hurt so much? I don’t understand–…_

Wait, so he really doesn’t have any idea of what’s going on? If only the god could read… he’ll have to work on some sort of screen that can shift braille like it would printed words. It could use small, localized tactile feedback, maybe? He adds the project to the top of his mental to-do list. Then again, if the god isn’t able to translate English, how the hell would he manage braille?

Tony bites his lip, trying to figure out how to respond to that. In the end, he reverses the translator on his phone and does his best to read it out.

“Treystu mér, lagi?”

_Trust me…_

Loki looks up at him, eyes red from crying, and bites his lip. A moment sits between them, something that feels like an eternity as he processes the clumsy words. In the end, he nods and lets out another sob. “hrædd.”

_Scared._

“I know, Loki. I know…”

The god’s too restless to sit still, and keeps alternating between clenching and flexing his hands. It’s not difficult to tell how hard he’s fighting to keep the panic controlled.

“kalt, svo kalt…” He speaks quietly, as though saying it aloud is forbidden.

_Cold, so cold…_

Tony stands, and when the god feels the bed shift a look of terror crosses his face. As though he was just going to walk away and never come back. Seriously, just– what the fuck even happened back on Asgard? Fighting bad guys, that’s easy. You point, shoot, and try not to get killed. Forcing a god off opiates cold turkey? Now that’s scary. And he’s not just saying that—he really is concerned about how to help him now, and how much worse this is going to get down the road. In the meantime, there are more blankets in his closet, alongside warmer (and cleaner) pyjamas and fuzzy socks. Yes, he has fuzzy socks. They’re comfy.

When he returns, Loki gives an audible sigh of relief and takes the clothes gratefully. Tony rubs the god’s arm and speaks in what he hopes is a reassuring voice.

“I’m going to go see if I can find a hot pack or something, and get you a cup of tea. Alright? I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Loki stares after him sadly, and he must be going soft or something because it makes it hard to leave. It’s for the best that he does, though, so he tries to quickly get together anything he can find that might help the god feel better. He figures it’s been long enough that a few tylenol probably won’t hurt, so he grabs a few of those too, and sits next to Loki again. The whole hot pack idea must be new with how confused he is by it, but when the Asgardian figures it out he looks a lot, well, not happier, but less uncomfortable. The tea cheers him up a bit too, but he’s still restless and the anxiety lurks just out of sight, as though it’s hiding in the corner of his eye. While Loki’s busy with the hot drink, Tony busies himself wrapping the extra blankets around him. When he’s done, the god looks like a burrito, and if it weren’t for the fact that Loki would probably take it wrong, he would have burst into laughter at the picture.

Then again, there’s also the part where the god’s essentially going through the worst flu ever and having a really hard time controlling the tears.

Once he’s finished the tea, Tony quickly takes the mug from him so it doesn’t accidentally turn into a Thor incident like Darcy had talked about that one time she came to visit. The hand twitching is getting a lot more pronounced. He lies down again, but can’t get comfortable and changes positions every couple minutes; his level of frustration increases exponentially.

“g-gera það að hætta, gera það að hætta!”

_Make it stop, make it stop!_

That’s definitely fear in the god’s voice now. Tony knows firsthand how it feels to be scared of his own body, but nothing like this. Not remotely.

Loki’s kneeling again, a little more twitchy than before and a lot more restless. It’s gotta be hell for him. Tony sighs—it’s not really his thing, but he’s noticed how the other responds to contact, and if it’ll help then it’s worth it. The bed dipping catches the god’s attention, but not as much as when Tony wraps his arms around his shoulders. True to form, Loki tenses significantly, then slowly relaxes once he realizes there’s not a threat. He’s not crying as much anymore, but there are still tears, and he rests his forehead on Tony’s shoulder.

It has even more of an impact than he’d expected. Loki’s still restless, sure, but the anxiety is cut by a good amount and the twitching gets a little better. The god’s breaths are shaky, and he clings to the front of Tony’s shirt like a lifeline.

In his pocket, his phone vibrates. Loki, predictably, jumps at the sudden noise, but doesn’t break away. Knowing that ignoring the call is useless and that the god will be able to hear even if he keeps the volume down, he tries to quiet him so he won’t be noticed and then answers his phone on speaker. Call it an act of good faith, if you want.

“Hey, Pep. What’s up?”

_”Just making sure you’re still alive, since you haven’t called in a few days.”_

“Surprise, I am!” He rolls his eyes. “Believe it or not I can actually survive on my own, in case you’ve forgotten.”

_”That doesn’t mean I don’t worry when you disappear into your workshop for weeks on end.”_

“It was one time, Pepper. _One time._ I’ve done a lot worse, I know you know that by now.”

_”You’ve got the suit I sent for the party tonight, right?”_

“I knew it! I knew you had some sort of ulterior moti– Wait, _tonight?_ I thought it wasn’t until Christmas Eve!”

_”Tony,”_ she reprimands with just the tiniest hint of concern, ” _it **is** Christmas Eve.”_

“Oh.”

_”Oh? **Oh?** We’ve been planning this for months, how can you just forget about it? There’s real potential to work out a partnership with Axiom, and it’s a pretty rare opportunity. You’d better be here an hour early at latest.”_

He looks down at Loki, who’s still crying silently against his shoulder. “I don’t think I’m gonna make it tonight, Pep. Maybe next time.”

_”Tony–! What on Earth makes you think it’s okay to just bail on something like this? Stark Industries needs you to at least show up every once in a while!”_

“Pepper, chill. I’m kind of busy.”

_”If you think you can skip out because you want to play around with that new vibranium shipment, you’re gonna have another think coming.”_

“I’m not in the workshop, for god’s sake, give it a rest.”

_”What are you so busy doing, then, that you’ve decided to shirk your duties as head of the company?”_

“Stop using fancy words. It doesn’t matter, I’m just busy.”

_”Tony,”_ she starts, in a tone too calm to be safe, _”are you with a girl?”_

“What? No! And why does it matter so much what I’m doing?” The god’s getting more restless, and the conversation isn’t helping his anxiety. Tony runs his fingers through the god’s hair in an attempt to calm him down again.

_”Please, just tell me? Relationships don’t work if you hide everything from each other.”_

He sighs. She’s not going to let up until she gets an answer (she’s gearing up for the guilt trip, this isn’t the first time she’s pulled it), and is too good at knowing when he’s lying.

Fine.

“Look, a friend of mine overdosed yesterday evening.” Yeah, Loki’s definitely getting twitchy again. “I pulled him off cold turkey, but the withdrawals are hellish and I’m not ditching him for some stupid party that I’m only going to make enemies at anyway. Will you please just get off my back about it?”

_”Wait, who is it, are they okay? It’s not one of the Avengers, is it?”_

“You keep acting like I care what the hell they do. That’s their business, and my friend's not one of them anyway. You don’t know him, and no, he’s not okay. Believe me, if he was, I would have stuck reindeer antlers on him by now like I’ve wanted to do for months now.”

_”Alright, well… if you’re telling the truth, then give him my regards.”_

“Tell him yourself, he can hear you.”

_”What?”_

Tony laughs quietly. “I said he can hear you. He’s right here.”

_”Oh, um, hi?”_

“Say hi,” he tells the god with a nod toward the phone.

Loki sniffs, and when he speaks it’s not hard to tell he’s scowling. “ég g-geri ekki hlutina á stjórn eins og hund.”

“Yeah… I probably don’t want to know,” he says, raising an eyebrow at the god he’s kind of awkwardly half-hugging now. “He says hi, Pep.”

“ég gjöri e-ekkert af því ta-tagi,” Loki mumbles irritatedly against his shoulder.

_”Alright, well, I’ve got a plane to catch. I’ll see you tonight.”_

She hangs up.

Right, so, this is going to be interesting. Pretty sure she won’t want to know just which friend it is, and that Loki won’t want her to know either. Wonder how she’ll react if he asks her to sleep in the spare room downstairs… there’s probably a fifty/fifty shot between her being understanding and giving him the really irritated, scary, you-fucked-up-and-now-Pepper-is-mad talk.

Well, it’s not like he’s never heard it before.

“How are you holding up, Blitzen?”

Loki sits back, glaring (the tears make it kind of ineffectual, but it’s the thought that counts), and flops back down onto the bed with his blankets.

“ég hata allt.”

Now that the call’s ended, his phone’s flipped back to the translator.

_I hate everything._

“Don’t you always?”

“ég hata þinn röddina, þögn.”

_I hate your voice, silence._

Tony scoffs in mock offense. “Now that’s just mean! How would you feel if I s–”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because one moment the god is holding a pillow over his head, and the next is practically on top of him. It only takes a few seconds for Loki to figure out where his throat is, which he really should have seen coming from the way his teeth are bared, and snarls.

“ÉG. SAGÐI. ÞÓGN!”

His phone is too far away to get a translation, but it’s pretty easy to tell that the god’s pissed.

“Gone too far, I got it, backing down now… please don’t kill me?”

“ÞÓGN!” The word is punctuated by Loki shaking him roughly. He does remember that Tony’s just a mortal, right? Well, not _just_ (because come on, he's Tony Stark) but still mortal. Still capable of being killed by scary Asgardian strength.

He decides maybe it’s better not to say anything.

Apparently, that’s the correct response. Loki stares him down a minute (which is uncomfortable, because the scars are really pretty awful), then shoves him back onto the bed before curling up again.

*’*’*

Norns, what’s happening to him? Everything feels hazy, like a bad dream, except too real at the same time. It’s not right, his body shouldn’t do this! His own flesh is wrong. Staying still for more than a few moments is physically painful, and even then he can’t stop shivering because it’s _cold._ There’s ice in his chest and ice in his mind and ice in the air and ice in the– Why’s his mind keep getting trapped in circles?

A shudder wracks his body, and he claws at the now-wrinkled sheets.

This side isn’t comfortable to lie on anymore, and trying to ignore the growing need to move is impossible, so he turns over. Except, that side’s no better. He switches back to how he was and wipes his forehead with his sleeve because he feels disgusting and sweaty and his nose is sore from the tissues and–…

No matter how hard he fights, he can’t control the twitches that come and go as they please. It feels like he’s dying of poison, except it won’t just _let him die._ He’s been poisoned before, felt it take hold and tear at his body, and he’s felt his soul losing its grip on his body. This time, he’s trapped in his flesh for all of it. _By all the valkyries, let him go!_

He bolts upright, heart pounding and anxiety clawing at his chest, at a sound off to his right. Belatedly he realizes that it was glass on wood—something being set down, probably a jar from the sound it—and not a threat. Arms shaking and head down, kneeling on the bed, he pants heavily as though he’s been on a day-long chase through the northern forests after game too agile to hunt on horseback. Tears threaten to spill over and he resolutely holds them back. He’s stronger than that. Loki, son of the abyss, does not cry for pain.

Instead, he shrieks in anger.

A couple backwards footsteps register—ah, that’s right, that _mortal_ is here. Anger swells to burning rage in his chest, panic just fuelling the flame until it’s a roaring blaze. Fire, you see, can just as easily warm the hearth as raze the house to the ground. Lips curl up to reveal a razor-sharp, feral grin as he stares in the man’s direction. Even his eyes, useless as they are, echo the outright animosity that replaces the tears.

The god giggles and leaps at him, only to misjudge thanks to the Hel-hated bed. It’s hardly a deterrent, though, because a couple thousand years have taught him how to duck and roll in order to recover from a misestimate. Perhaps it’s better this way because blind or not, a human cannot even finish processing the need to turn before he has them incapacitated from behind. This man is no different.

If anything, it’s easier, since the fool had underestimated him previously.

Grab his shoulders, kick his leg out from under him, catch with his own leg, use his arm for leverage to spin him face-down, and lock it behind him. It takes under a second to complete, even using minimal force, and is really only two movements—a drop and a turn. Child’s play.

_”Deyja. Deyja, þú sjúkdómur-riðið, krap-borða, geit-pörun þræll.”_

The mortal says something that sounds alarmed and struggles, which is fine. Nice, actually. The idiot would do well to fear him in his last moments.

*’*’*

He kind of knew it was coming… the calm before the storm had been a little too calm. Well, besides the part where he was freaking out about the overdose, which was anything but. The past, what, eighteen and a half hours and counting? They belong in a Lemony Snicket novel. The god seems to have five modes that may or may not overlap—clingy and crying, hiding, panicking, moaning in pain, and driving Tony crazy. Actually, the last applies to most of the other ones, because half are irritating and the rest are the other side of awful.

There are also the moments when Loki just breaks down and begs for morphine; those are probably the worst.

This, though… he’s surprised it hasn’t happened sooner. The god’s a pail of caesium balanced on a knife edge over the ocean—just waiting for someone to tip it one way or the other—and you don’t want to be anywhere nearby when it falls.

He’s noticed the god becoming more aware as time passes. The sleeping meds really kicked his ass, but he’s been edging back toward Loki as he knows him. Whether that’s for better or worse, well… he’ll have to wait and see.

That is, if he survives.

See, this is Loki as he was during the battle. He’s feral, unhinged, and running off of some really terrifying instincts. That’s really the problem, though, isn’t it? When it comes down to it, Loki’s having the same reactions that a wild animal would. Confused, in pain, and scared? That’s a recipe for disaster.

A disaster that’s currently scaring the everliving shit out of him. One moment he’s bringing food for the god, and the next he’s face-down on the carpet with his arm pulled painfully back, Loki snarling in his ear.

_”Deyja. Deyja, þú sjúkdómur-riðið, krap-borða, geit-pörun þræll.”_

“Loki, chill the fuck out, I’m not going to hurt you!” He tries (and fails, which is kind of expected given the combination of the god’s strength and adrenaline) to get away, but the more he struggles, the more his arm is twisted until it’s all he can do not to scream.

He’s back to battle-scared, and he doesn’t like it at all. Believe it or not, he kind of likes being alive, y’know? Fun stuff. Life is appreciated.

Then again, he's kind of giving mixed signals—trying to calm the god down while trying to fight against him. Change of tactics? Couldn’t hurt.

Tony lets himself relax, and stops struggling. Loki could kill him easily, but to be honest, he’s not sure the god actually wants to. Fingers crossed he doesn’t die.

That seems to seriously throw him, and he falters for a moment.

“It’s okay, Loki,” he says (relatively) calmly.

There’s a sharp pain, and everything fades to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The move Loki uses on Stark is called a Rear Sentry Takedown: http://youtu.be/NuYZZwZnrvA  
> And what he says to him immediately following is essentially,  
> “Die. _Die,_ you disease-ridden, slush-eating, goat-fucking slave.”
> 
> Caesium is a chemical, metallic element that’s liquid at room temperature and happens to be just slightly (ridiculously) reactive. Water, well, makes it go boom. There’s also a radioactive isotope that’s caused a few… problems, in the past.  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caesium  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goi%C3%A2nia_accident


	12. Terror

Had he been planning to injure the mortal? No.

 

Did he? Yes.

 

Does he regret it? No.

 

Anyone who thinks he’s less dangerous because he’s sick and injured is an incredible fool. Desperation is a fantastic motivator, as it turns out, and the ability to use it to turn himself into a living weapon is the reason he’s survived as long as he has.

 

There isn’t much time before the man comes after him, and the awful computer will reveal his location if he stays within the tower. He quickly finds where his backpack and cane are stashed under the bed, grabs a blanket from the floor where he must have kicked it off, and throws anything superfluous (pretty much everything) aside. Hiding here isn’t an option. The doors are locked (unsurprisingly, considering what Midgard thinks of him), but it’s a simple matter to break them open between a well-placed kick and the relative strength of gods.

 

It’s a nightmare, navigating the steep, rough cement stairs, but after the first few levels it seems that each flight has the same number of steps—once he’s learned that, there’s less worry about where the next platform is and he can move a lot more quickly. At the bottom he finds the lobby, milling with employees, customers, and the like.There are too many conversations and sounds to easily pick up on one alone while he passes through, not as his mind is functioning now. He knows the room by the few times he’s visited in the past, making it easy to cross (and at one point back then he’d leaned against a fire pull by mistake, which hurt, but now becomes useful).

 

Suddenly there’s chaos as bells shriek, and a businessman offers to help him outside. He graciously accepts.

 

Once he’s escaped the building it’s hard to actually run, especially since it’s rush hour and the sidewalks are remarkably busy, and not to mention his unfamiliarity with the area. The important thing, though, is to avoid being caught, so he gets as far away from the tower as possible.

 

*’*’*

 

Tony wakes up incredibly confused and a little light-headed. His mind feels feels kind of funny. He decides to lie there a while because the carpet’s nice and soft, so why move when it’s so comfortable? What even happened? He’d run downstairs to find something the god would eat, and now he’s on the floor… Weird.

 

How long has that smudge been on the ceiling? Who decided it would be alright to smudge his nice pretty ceiling? Not cool.

 

Wait, hadn’t there been a very miserable norse god in here like five minutes ago? Where the hell is he– oh. Right. Said god had decided to go psycho when he set down the jar. Awesome.

 

And now he’s vanished.

 

Dammit all.

 

He sits slowly, making sure his head’s clear before getting up. There’s only so far the god could have gone, right? Considering the, y’know, multiple impairments he’s currently operating under.

 

The screeching ring of the fire alarm feels like it’s stabbing him in the brain, repeatedly.

 

“For fuck’s sake, Jarvis, turn that down! I have a headache!” It quiets to a slightly more bearable but equally irritating level. “Did that asshole do what I think he just did?”

 

“If by that you mean did he trigger the fire alarm, then yes, sir.”

 

No. _Now_ damn it all.

 

And don’t think for a second that he’s missed the irony of the god using the exact same escape plan as he had back in the subway station.

 

Tony grabs a black wool coat and red scarf then takes off, quickly finding Loki’s escape route (it’s not exactly difficult, since the elevator wouldn’t have worked without Jarvis’ permission and the nearest door to the stairs is hanging at a weird angle with a suspicious  dent by the latch) and then running back to the elevator since it’s faster.

 

“He still in the building?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

That complete and utter asshole.

 

“Ground floor, now. What direction did he go?”

 

Jarvis gives him the best instructions he can, which are that Loki headed west up 42nd and then disappeared into a gap in the security footage of the city. Now the AI is searching everywhere nearby and waiting for him to show up again—as it so happens, it’s pretty hard to find blind spots when you yourself are blind. Sure enough, as he’s running out the front door the god’s appeared again a block or two north (then, naturally, is gone again). Tony tells Jarvis to keep him updated, then takes off at a run. He should be able to catch up if he can move quickly enough, since Loki’s slowed by his blindness and probably won’t make it far before the the symptoms kick in with a vengeance.

 

Why is he running after the crazy guy?

 

No idea.

 

Probably because Loki’s been curled up in his lap crying on and off for the past twelve hours, getting increasingly panicky… He’s said it before and he’ll say it again—seeing the god of fire and lies brought so low is terrifying.

 

The god’s disappeared again somewhere within a three-block radius, but past that Jarvis hasn’t been able to track him. He’s too fucking good at this, and it’s not cool.

 

There’s a ridiculous amount of snow on the ground, and not in the fun way. More in the freezing way, and there’s slush in his shoes. Uggh. Now it’s down to searching the old-fashioned way, and it sucks. There are any number of buildings he could have disappeared into, and while a lot of them are closed for the holiday, he can’t necessarily rule them out considering, well, Loki. The god’s a force of nature. Possibly even more so than Thor, which is saying something.

 

He stops in two convenience stores, an asian food grocer’s, has Jarvis run on a scan on the department store and only checks the blind areas because that’d be impossible otherwise, then moves on to four restaurants, and a hobby shop. Where he actually finds the god, which shouldn’t really be that surprising considering his talent for hiding in the places people don’t tend to look, is when he’s walking down a shadowed, dusty alleyway and catches movement out of the corner of his eye.

 

Loki’s curled up with a patchwork quilt around him, staring out into space, and teeth clenched like he tends to do when he’s fighting back tears.

 

He leans against the brick wall a little bit in front of the god (still kind of wary, he’s not a _complete_ idiot), crossing his arms and his legs to brace himself against the cold wind.

 

“That was kind of rude, you know. Taking a guy out when he’s bringing you food. Especially when he’s been taking care of your sorry ass for the past day while you fail miserably at sitting still.”

 

The god’s eyes flick up toward his face (okay, that’s good, at least he’s still relatively aware of his surroundings), but that’s as much a response as he gets.

 

“Jerk. I’d come up with one of your crazy, over-complicated insults except I’m kind of freezing my ass off out here. I vote we go inside. Like, now would be great.” No such luck. Deciding yet again that safety is for losers, he sits down beside Loki. “Hey, shove over and stop hogging the blanket. If you’re so determined to have a party under the fire escape then at least don’t make me freeze to death and not even invite me.”

 

Again, the god doesn’t really respond, but he doesn’t resist either when Tony tugs away one end of the blanket so he can fit too. “How the hell aren’t you a popsicle by now?” No answer. That’s alright, he can hold a conversation by himself. “You do realize this only strengthens my case that you’re Rudolph. Wait, have you ever seen that movie? The stop motion version, not the other one. We’re so watching it when we get back, you’re missing out on the Christmas cheer. Okay, well, actually I guess we can just skip to the song since you’re kind of missing out on ninety percent of a movie like that if you can’t see it. Christmas songs! Once the worst of this is over, we’re putting on Christmas songs, making hot chocolate, and wearing santa hats. Well, reindeer antlers in your case. I’ve got this awesome pair somewhere that light up. You guys don’t have anything like Christmas back on Asgard, do you? Guessing not, at least not in the crazy way we do here. It’s kind of a dumb holiday, but the food and music’s sort’a fun. Plus it’s always hilarious seeing what Pepper decides to get me, because it’s inevitably something ridiculous, and if you’d have come back when I told you to you wouldn’t be freaking out like this right now. Holy crap, chill. Ready to head to the tower? Please?”

 

*’*’*

 

He hadn’t made it as far as he’d wanted to, because once the rush of adrenaline wore off the illness came back even worse than before. There was an alleyway a few feet away from where it had started again, so he’d ducked into it and found the best hiding spot he could in the darkness.

 

Now the mortal is prattling on about something in his own language and has taken part of his blanket, and all Loki wants to do is curl up somewhere warm with a book and his sight. Whatever is killing him is doing so at an agonizingly slow rate and he wishes it would just hurry up already so the pain would be over. Norns, just make it end… and kill the man, too, because his head is already currently attemptin to split in two. He’s exhausted, and if he could he’d simply fall asleep here and now, but he needs to _move_ and his arm is sore. Abandoning the cocoon of warmth he’d managed to make so as to use the pent up energy and escape the man, Loki stumbles to his feet and wanders off down the alley, tracing the wall of the building to keep his bearings.

 

The mortal shouts something at him, and there’s scuffling as he climbs to his feet. Loki ignores him until there’s a sharp tug on his arm, at which point he almost kills the man on instinct.

 

“Slepptu mér!”

 

Just let _go_ of him. Let him go, in whichever way fits, or all of them if necessary. As long as it doesn’t involve being trapped here, in the cold, in the darkness of his blindness, and in this traitorous body. It’s too much, too _much,_ he was a prince! A king! A god!   
  
A god?

 

More like a monster. Saved or stolen doesn’t really matter anymore, but he’ll see both ‘fathers’ killed if he can. And the Odinson, too, will die. He doesn’t want to rule Asgard, just watch it fall and burn to pay back in kind what was done to him, What is _being_ done to him.

 

Everything should die.  
  
 _Everything._

 

Maybe when it does, the ice in his mind will stop and he’ll finally be at peace.

 

If he doesn’t kill, then he’ll be killed; he knows full well how this all plays out. If they find him, if _He_ finds him, this will be nothing. If anything, this death will be pleasure in comparison.

 

Or, he’ll be forgotten. Alone. He’s already an outlaw on Asgard and may as well be here.

 

What if S.H.I.E.L.D finds him? He’ll be hunted for sport, locked, up, muzzled, and _caged_ like the beast he is; he’ll be sent back to the mocking gilded halls and marble floors; he’ll be– they’ll–

 

*’*’*

 

“Woah, Loki, breathe! Well, less than you are now, you know what I mean.”

 

The god’s panting, quickly approaching hyperventilating, and quite frankly he has no clue what caused it. His eyes are wide and the shaking isn’t just from withdrawals anymore. Whatever it is, it’s got him pretty freaked out, and is reminding Tony of the anxiety attacks he still gets when he thinks too hard about the past.

 

“C’mon, Loki, sit down. That’s it…” This is going to be kind of hard without the god understanding what he’s saying, but fuck it all if he’s not going to try. He kneels in front of him (and right into a puddle—that’s what he gets for helping), trying to keep his voice calm. Not his strong suit, at all, but he’s had a day or so to practice and he can learn a lot in twenty-four hours. When they’re both on the ground, he tilts Loki’s head up—the whole blindness thing kind of hinders things too, but hopefully he gets the point.

 

“Look, man, I don’t know what made you lose it, but right now you’re not in any immediate danger. You need to breathe, and focus on what’s happening here and now. Just try to breathe.”

 

Understanding his words or not, the tone at least seems to help the god calm down slowly.

 

“There you go… see? Nothing here to be scared of, except maybe me talking your ear off, in which case just use a rubber band or something to put it back on.”

 

“Þeir eru að fara að finna mig, þeir geta ekki fundið mig–…” he whispers in a terrified tone.

 

“It’s alright, Loki, you’re alright…”

 

The god pulls his knees up to his chest and rests his head on them. He’s crying, Tony can hear the half-silenced sobs, and vaguely wonders how Loki will react once all this is over and the ridiculous mood-swings have subsided. Probably kill him in a really slow and painful way; he seems the type. In the meantime, though, Tony  runs his fingers through the god’s hair since it always seems to help calm him down.

 

That only lasts a minute or so before Loki’s up and pacing, still breathing a little more quickly than he should be while his expression flits between anger, fear, and madness.

 

Okay, yeah, he’s definitely unstable.

 

Please remind him how he’d forgotten about that?

 

Oh, right. He’s an idiot. Too late now, he supposes.

 

“Dasher, here–” he hands the god his blanket back. Loki wraps it around his shoulders as though it will somehow protect him from the rest of the world, and stumbles.

 

Tony waits until the god’s steadied himself before going to help him. This little incident has reminded him of the fact that Loki’s not some kid with a scraped knee and a cold—he’s a god who can and will destroy a city, country, or world with the right motivation—and coddling him is only going to piss him off. Not that there’s been an exceptional amount of coddling by any means, because that’s so not Tony’s schtick.. But if he imagines them in opposite places (it’s still slightly scary how easy that is to do), he knows full well that there’s only so much he’d let someone do before he lost it.

 

The guy’s still a wreck, though, and they end up taking a cab back to the tower.

 

Loki grumbles in Asgardian all the way there and Tony’s okay with not knowing what he’s saying. It’s probably not anything pleasant, all things considered, so the god’s more than welcome to keep it to himself.

 

Once they’re in the penthouse, Loki pushes him aside, determined to make his way himself. As long as the god doesn’t decide to bolt again he’s fine with that, because quite frankly he’s hungry; all this taking care of the weird-ass Asgardian crap hasn’t left much time for food. The good thing, though, is that at least until he starts getting better and feels a bit more amicable, Loki won’t steal his food. Tony knows for a fact that he’s not as picky normally as he is right now—he’d gone grocery shopping with him for hell’s sake—but it’s just as well. He’s got a feeling the god will eat plenty once he’s able.

 

Actually, the bigger problem is that he needs to get more food period, because he’s almost out. And that’s not him being picky, he’s just forgotten to get Jarvis to have more sent. Peanut butter and jelly’s going to have to work.

 

It takes a bit of scraping the dregs out of the bottoms of the jars, but there’s almost enough for a sandwich. Eh, close enough. He makes another mug of tea, too, since a certain idiot decided to go prancing around in the snow.

 

*’*’*

 

To be honest with himself (which is something that does on occasion, although not always), he’s frightened. His mind’s not right, his body’s not right– no, he takes that back. His body is a traitor of the worst kind.

 

He can’t fight, not long in this condition and certainly not when it’s combined with blindness, and he can’t run. Too many people are after him, Stark is ridiculously persistent, and again—he’s not in good condition. That leaves one option, and one he happens to be well-versed in—hiding. It’s hard to find a place when he has no idea where anything is and hasn’t walked these quarters extensively before, but he’ll make do.

 

He always does.

 

*’*’*

 

Tony walks back to the bedroom with a mug that keeps trying to overflow in one hand, a bottle of soda in the other, and the sandwich held a little awkwardly between his teeth (shut up, it works).

 

He really, _really_ shouldn’t be as surprised as he is.

 

Naturally, Loki’s up and disappeared again—most likely as soon as he’d turned his back—and now it’s back to their little game of find-the-missing-trickster.

 

“Ah, Jarvis? And idea on the location of our wayward chaos god?

 

“It would appear he’s downstairs, sir. If I might ask, did you honestly believe that he would just go back to the bed?”

 

He scows. Of _course_ he had to program his AI to be snarky. “Shut up.”

 

All in all, Jarvis hasn’t been that helpful. See, his tower is pretty big, and there are a lot of things down the stairs from the penthouse. Thankfully this time it’s only a floor down, because otherwise that would have been a nightmare to search through, and considering it was supposed to be empty meant the sound coming from the other room was a pretty good hint to his position.

 

*’*’*

 

Admittedly, it isn’t his best job at hiding.

 

*’*’*

 

When he finds him, Loki is sitting in the corner of the guest-suite shower, knees pulled up to his chest and fidgeting even worse than before. He also happens to be soaking wet because he’s turned the water on, and it’s practically a sauna with how hot it is.

 

“Loki?” he asks cautiously, not wanting to end up unconscious again.

 

The god flinches and backs up, head resting on his knees.

 

Tony kneels beside him, careful to make enough noise that he won’t spook him again. Holy shit, the water is practically boiling, how can Loki stand this? Still, the god’s obviously freaked out, so he sits against the tile beside him and wraps an arm around his shoulders. It takes a few minutes, but eventually Loki leans into it. The god’s just staring out into the distance, almost completely zoned out but still unable to sit still.

 

“Damn, Blitzen, is it that bad?”

 

The way he tenses and cries out suddenly a couple minutes later confirms that yes, it is.

 

They sit quietly for a time, the only sound that of the water as it falls and splashes against the tile floor. Loki’s getting progressively worse, and they both know it, although the god still doesn’t understand why. The not-peace is broken when jolts to his feet and stumbles to the toilet to throw up.

 

Tony kneels beside him, pulling the god’s hair back into a ponytail again.

 

All of this, this taking care of people business? So not his style. He’s not mom material. Apparently he falls into the keep-the-psycho-supervillain-alive category, though. Seriously, what the hell?

 

When he’s finished, Loki curls up on the cool floor, teary-eyed and shaky. Tony cleans up, then goes to sit by his side, rubbing the god’s back and talking quietly about completely pointless shit that he won’t understand anyway. He hates silence when it’s uncomfortable like that.

 

“Let’s get you back upstairs, yeah? Saltines might not be fantastic, but a couple should help get the taste out of your mouth and then we can try to find something to keep you occupied.”

 

Loki doesn’t give any response, but stands on shaky legs when prompted. The whole thing’s taking a lot out of him, and he’s not sure how the whole Asgardian physiology is playing into that, but Tony’s pretty ready for it to be over.

 

Well, at least the first few days. They’re in it for the long haul now, whether they like it or not—and that’s definitely a not.

 

He helps him to the elevator and back to the bedroom, searching for another set of clothes for him. There are only so many pyjamas in his closet, though, and they don’t fit the god that well. At some point they’re going to need to either get their hands on the things from Loki’s apartment or buy new ones. Deciding autonomy while he can have it is probably better for him, Tony hands the god a towel to dry off before he changes, then finds an old t-shirt and sweats to wear himself, since his clothes got wet too.

 

When he turns back, Loki has the covers pulled up over his head and it looks like he’s trying to control the restlessness again. Tony knows there’s a lot of effort going into it, but it’s not enough for the god to succeed in his endeavor.

 

It’s not really that late, only eight or nine, but given the day they’ve had it may as well be bedtime. Fingers crossed Loki actually gets some sleep tonight, because tomorrow’s probably going to be one of his worst days and being exhausted isn’t going to help.

 

Tony grabs a small handful of crackers and nudges the god so he’ll take them. He does, reluctantly, but hey—better than nothing. After that he goes back to tossing and turning, alternating between pulling the grey fleece blanket over his head and kicking it off entirely when he gets hot. It’s hard to watch.

 

“Ég er svo þreytt…”

 

His cell phone’s on the nightstand, but he can read the letters from here.

 

_I’m so tired._

 

“Loki…”

 

The god turns over so he’s facing away from him and sighs. It’s a sound of defeat.

 

“Hey, c’mere.” He’s careful not to scare him this time, purposefully moving so the bed will dip slightly before resting a hand on the his shoulder. Loki tips his head in his direction again, a questioning look on his face.

 

“Get your ass over here, you’re making me restless just watching you. Alright?” He tugs on the god’s sleeve a little to try and get his meaning across. After a moment he acquiesces, and Tony ends up sitting against the headboard while Loki lies staring up at the ceiling, head in his lap.

 

“Jarvis? Wanna DJ an orchestra concert for us?”

 

Bach’s Partita for solo violin No. 2 in D minor  plays quietly, and Loki immediately perks up.

 

“You know this one?”

 

He smiles, a tinge of sorrow in his eyes, and closes his eyes. Tony runs his fingers through the god’s hair, watching him slowly relax—the restlessness and twitching haven’t stopped by any means, and he’s still essentially going through the most miserable flu ever on top of that—but for a little while everything feels just a tiny bit more peaceful. When Loki’s finally fallen asleep, which is a miracle unto itself, he calls up the holograms of his current project and works to the sound of violins.

 

*’*’*

 

Eventually he falls asleep as well, and all is quiet on the western front. It’s hard to say how many hours pass, as it’s neither an exceptionally long span of time nor a remarkably short one, but possibly the first extended period since all this started that they’ve both been in relative peace at the same time.

 

*’*’*

 

A sudden brightness wakes him, light filtering through his eyelids until he opens them groggily to see Pepper standing in the doorway with a mixture of shock, confusion, and fear written on her face. Tony’s still half asleep, and the god completely so since the blindness makes the change irrelevant. Why’s she look so– oh, right. Loki.

 

She opens her mouth to speak, or shout, or whatever her plans are, but he puts a finger on his lips to quiet her. His phone is just out of reach so instead he opens another holographic screen and texts her that way.

 

_I promise to explain, but he finally fell asleep and I don’t want to move and wake him up. Don’t say anything or make too much noise, he’ll freak out. Okay? Just trust me for now._

 

For a few moments it looks like that’s the last thing she’ll do, but she finally nods and closes the door behind her as she leaves.

 

Whoops.

  
Merry Christmas, Pepper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bach’s Partita for solo violin No. 2 in D minor:  
> http://youtu.be/6KaYzgofHjc
> 
> If you want my mental version of Loki in the last part, this is relatively close (minus the obvious differences in attire and location). It’s one of the photos I have open to refer back to when I’m worried characterization is going to slip, because it knocks me out of the changes I make without realizing them:  
> http://www.fxguide.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/img_14.jpg


	13. Traitor

Loki whines and curls in on himself, whimpering unintelligible strings of Asgardian in his sleep, and Tony’s been dozing on and off since a certain girlfriend appeared home at one of the worst possible times ever. Well, okay, probably not the worst—the whole Loki-going-psycho incident wasn’t fantastic—but still not a fantastic time. This is going to be fun… Right now he’s half-awake and has gone back to running fingers through the god’s hair in an attempt to keep him asleep. Him being tired will make all of this a thousand times harder to deal with.

 

It slowly becomes clear that what he assumes to be a nightmare isn’t going to stop, so as gently as he can he shakes the god awake. About a second and a half later, there are hands around his throat and a hyperventilating asgardian three inches from his face, eyes wide and teeth bared. Oh for fuck’s sake.

 

“Loki,” he wheezes through the (slightly not mortal-killing) grip, “just a dream, not good to kill your host, that’s generally considered bad manners.” After a moment the god lets go and sits back, chest heaving.

 

“f-fyrirgefa mér.”

 

Tony watches him for a few minutes, letting him calm down. “You alright?”

 

Loki winces and wraps his arms around his stomach with a moan.

 

“Gonna take that as both a yes and a no. Is it okay if I run out into the common room for a few minutes? Pepper kind’a showed up earlier this morning and I should probably explain myself before she calls S.H.I.E.L.D. on both our asses. She’s too goody-two-shoes sometim– Loki?”

 

At the mention of the dumb government assholes the god pales and scrambles backwards to the point that Tony worries for half a second he’s going to fall off the bed.

 

“nei, nei, nei, ekki segja þeim að ég er hér, ekki kalla þá, ég vil ekki að fara aftur í Asgard–!” If he’d been wide-eyed before, this takes the cake. Holy shit.

 

“Woah, Loki,” Tony moves forward and rests a hand on Loki’s shoulder and is again worried he’ll fall off the bed with how much he immediately flinches and cowers. “I’m not calling them. I’m going to go makes sure Pepper doesn’t, okay? It’s alright…” The god slowly slows his breathing (with noticeable effort). “Tell you what—I had Happy run out and find shit you’ll actually eat, so while I’m out there I’ll make some toast in case you’re hungry. Sound good?”

 

Loki can’t understand him, of course, and doesn’t look convinced, but pulls the grey blanket he seems to have claimed for his own around his shoulders and lies back down in a relatively safe spot for not ending up on the floor.

 

“I’ll be back in just a few, try not to run off again?” No response, naturally. He walks out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him, and goes to find Pepper. She’s sitting on the couch with a tablet, and when she glances up he tries to gauge her reaction. No such luck.

 

“I think you’ve got some explaining to do.” How the fuck does she always keep her voice so level? Must be a side effect of putting up with him for god only knows how many years.

 

Playing it cool, Tony heads to the kitchen (which is, for the most part, open to the rest of the room save for the counter that divides them) and hunts around for the schmancy bread that’s supposed to be around here somewhere.

 

“Merry Christmas to you too. How was the party? Well, tell me about Tokyo first, the party was probably boring.”

 

She sends him a warning look. “Tony…”

 

“Yeah?” What does she expect him to say?

 

Pepper switches which leg is crossed and sets down the tablet on the coffee table. “For starters, please tell me that’s not who I think it is.”

 

“Depends on who you think it is. I hereby swear it’s not Barney, the Pope, or your little brother.”

 

“I don’t have a little brother.”

 

Aha! So _that’s_ where Happy stashed the bread. Why the hell is it in a drawer? That’s dumb.* Bread belongs on the counter. “Which is why I’m so sure that it’s not him.”

 

“I’m not laughing, Tony.”

 

“Alright, who do you think it is then? By the way, I’m pretty sure I have a constitutional right to not self-incriminate. I learned that when I was like eight years old and graffitied an equation on the cafeteria wall that would draw a dick if you graphed it.”

 

She sighs, rubbing her temples. “Is that or is it not Thor’s brother?”

 

“Oh, see, you should have asked that before. And it’s not, he’s adopted. Pretty sore about the subject too, from what I’ve seen. If you’re asking if it’s Loki, though, then yeah.”

 

How the hell does she keep her face so calm while still looking like she’s going to kill him? She and Loki should start a club.

 

“Please give me one good reason I shouldn’t call S.H.I.E.L.D. right now.”

 

That’s an easy one. “Because if you do, I’ll leave the Avengers and Loki will probably kill you. He’s scary good at shit like that.”

 

“You’re not helping your case, Tony. Why were you in bed with the man who killed Phil and half of Manhattan? Actually, just start with why he’s here at all, unless those two are related.”

 

Okay, exaggeration much? More like a third of Midtown. If that. And wait, is she asking–?  “What? No! We’re not sleeping together! Well, not in that way, we were both technically asleep, but not like that!”

 

She waits for him to continue.

 

“I already told you why he’s here, didn’t I?”

 

“I don’t recall you ever saying Loki was at the tower.”

 

Why is this toaster so complicated? Why does a toaster need buttons? “Are you sure? Because I’m pretty sure we were chatting on the phone yesterday afternoon.”

 

“Trust me, I would have remembered if you mentioned him.”

 

“Remember when I told you my friend overdosed?”

 

Her eyes widen. “Loki poisoned someone?”

 

What? Tony sighs. “No, well, not in the way you think. He’s the one who OD’d.”

 

“Sorry if I’m having a little bit of trouble hearing correctly, but I think you just said that _Loki_ overdosed.” Suddenly her expression turns to one of concern. “Tony, is he threatening you? Or controlling your mind?”

 

“No! And it’s not like he showed up at my door for a pity party, either. He went off-grid for a couple months and I started to get worried, so I hunted him down and found him passed out in an abandoned subway tunnel with an empty bottle of morphine.”

 

And… now she’s confused. Fair enough, though. “Why would Loki have morphine in the first place?”

 

“Do I look like I know?”

 

“Well if you’re playing house, which we’re getting to in a minute because I have a few more questions there, didn’t you ask him?”

 

“Ah, yeah, there have been some communication issues. Namely that I don’t speak Asgardian, at all. So unless you do, or at least speak Icelandic, it’s going to be a little while before we can ask.”

 

“Assuming I believe that he’s not just bluffing, there’s a translator on your phone. This isn’t the middle-ages.”

 

Tony flops down in one of the chairs to the right. “Ah… yeah, I probably forgot to mention that he’s blind.”

 

“What?”

 

“Has been for a while. Has to have been… well, three months definitely, but apparently since before he showed up on Earth again.”

 

The rough overview continues, with a very skeptical and unimpressed Pepper, while he tries to convince her that yes, he’s telling the truth and no, he’s not sleeping with Loki. Granted, given his history it’s probably a fair worry, but still.

 

“Does anyone else know about this?” she asks when he finishes.

 

Tony shakes his head. “Just you and Happy. S.H.I.E.L.D. knows he’s on Earth, or at least that he was, because he kind of showed up and saved Tasha’s life, but they lost track of him almost immediately.”

 

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Tony…” She’s not _quite_ looking at him like he’s crazy, but it’s close.

 

“Pepper, when I should have died in Afghanistan, someone saved me. I don’t talk about it much because I don’t like to think about it, but there was a man named Yinsen who practically dragged my sorry ass back to life and was there the entire time while I recovered. He’s the one who stuck an electromagnet in my chest and who helped me build the first arc reactor. He’s the one who built the first suit with me and risked his life doing it. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t be here right no–”

 

He jumps when the toast pops up. “Fuck, does it need to be that loud? Anyway, Loki, in there? He needs someone. I’m a pretty shitty guy for the job, but neither of us were ever really deserving of second chances. Damn it all to hell if I’m not going to help him through this, because he knows what’s going on as much as I did five years ago, and you told me yourself that I’m not heartless.”

 

She looks at him like a mother would look at a particularly petulant child, and speaks just as patronizingly. “Except Loki is a terrorist who destroyed half of Manhattan, and you’re Iron Man.”

 

“I’m the Merchant of Death, for fuck’s sake! If you stop exaggerating shit then Loki took down, what, a quarter of Midtown? I could level a whole town with a couple missiles while I ate pizza on my sofa in Malibu, and I did. Whoever was pushing the launch button doesn’t really matter, because I’m the one who happily made quicker and deadlier weapons and sold them for pocket change. When it comes down to it, I have more blood on my hands than he does—the only difference is I went after the middle east, and he came for us.”

 

“So, what, you’re going to help him recover and then turn him into a superhero?”

 

Okay, is she really as excited about that idea as she sounds?

 

“Fuck no. Do you honestly think that could ever happen? He’s no hero, and anyone who thinks he’ll ‘reform’ is an idiot who needs to get checked into a psych ward. Loki is dangerous, off-balance, and a living weapon. He always will be.”

 

Pepper glares, and a couple years ago he might have caved and let her have her way.“You do realize that this is way past a felony, right? If Fury finds out he’s here and wants to, he could have you tried for treason.  _Treason,_ Tony. This isn’t a joke.”

 

It’s starting to feel like when he’d throw one of his arc reactors into overdrive, how the heat that would spread from its core outwards through his body until it felt like his blood was on fire—as though the phantom memory of his glass and metal heart alone is enough to power his body into a fight. Does she not get it? Is she seriously missing the obvious quite so much?

 

“Pepper,” he says, with the sort of sudden calm that surrounds blinding rage and compresses it into a missile ready to detonate. “You’re right. This isn’t a joke. I am completely serious when I say that if you threaten one of us then you threaten the other, and I don’t take kindly to threats.”

 

“Ton–”

 

“You’re one of the most important people in my life, Pepper, don’t for a second think you’re not, but that doesn’t mean you get to rule my life—either get with the program, or get out of the tower. However much of a crazy, slightly-psychotic asshole he is, I’m not tossing him out or calling the Avengers. Got it?” The anger that’s been sitting in a pressure cooker for the past five minutes is about to blow at her complete inability to see his side of things. Is she even trying? “This isn’t me seeing how far I can push the line for the fun of it, or taking a piss on Fury’s parade out of spite. This is me doing something because it’s right.”

 

She stares, and apparently for the first time since they’ve met he’s completely thrown her for a loop. Silence stretches between them, heavy and stifling, as they try and fail to understand the other’s point of view.

 

Eventually, she breaks it.

 

“So you’re choosing him over me.”

 

Tony sighs, running a hand through his unkempt hair. “Why does it have to be a choice, Pep? I want to spend Christmas with you, and I don’t want to make Loki go through this alone. Is it really impossible to do both?”

 

“It’s not–… You should have told me, Tony, ages ago when you first saw him on Earth. You definitely should have told me when you first brought him here, and you didn’t give me any warning before I came home. Are you seeing the problem here? Not to mention how reckless this is, and the fact that if something happens that now I’m caught in it too, whether I want to be or not. It’s like Iron Man all over again, but with even higher stakes.”

 

“Oh, come on. When have high stakes ever bothered me?”

 

Pepper looks at him sadly. “And that’s the whole problem. You forget the consequences too easily, while the rest of us have to watch you self-destruct. One day you’re going to run out of luck, and the odds will finally stack up higher than you can climb. You’re not immortal, Tony. I worry about you.”

 

“Yeah, I know…” He looks down. “I just can’t leave him to fend for himself when there’s no way he can.”

 

A tiny, joking smile tugs at her lip. “Tony, have you found a stray kitten?”

 

“What? Hell no! And if you ever compare him to something like that while he can hear you, I am _not_ responsible for the consequences.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

Tony cocks his head, hopeful. “So… does this mean we’re good?”

 

She sighs, but after a minute nods. “Yeah, we’re good.”

 

“You’re awesome.” Thank god for Pepper Potts. Now he can’t stop grinning.

 

“But–” she cuts in, effectively ending his mental victory lap. “I’m not comfortable being involved in this, Tony. He’s killed a lot of people—a lot of _good_ people—and there’s a pretty huge price on his head. Like I said, this isn’t something you can get bailed out of. Offering him asylum is probably the riskiest thing you’ve done, which is saying something, and if it goes belly-up then there’s going to be a lot of fallout and no way back.”

 

It’s not something he’s actively thought about, but at the same time he’s always realized that the risks he takes are generally all-or-nothing. Tony nods. “And you’re not the sort of person who likes to play with matches.”

 

“If you play with fire long enough, someone’s going to get burned. Besides, he’s more like an arc reactor bomb than a match.”

 

“Fair enough.”

 

Pepper watches him for a minute. “I take it you know where this is going?”

 

“Pretty sure, yeah. You want an alibi?”

 

“At least a dozen witnesses?”

 

He nods. “Will do. How long are you thinking?”

 

“I need to think about things and make a decision on how much I want to get involved, if I do at all. Give me at least a week, possibly more depending on how things go and how crazy things get with the company.”

 

“Gotcha. Jarvis, you with me, buddy? Airtight alibi for one Pepper Potts, she was never here” Tony smiles at her. “Or you could just use your Jedi mind tricks that you do.”

 

“That’s called normal conversation, Tony,” she tells him drily.

 

“Boring. Anyway, when you leave, Jarvis will edit you out of any security footage since you got off the plane and add you to another location’s.  Everything will be golden. Now, you staying for food, or what?”

 

“I don’t know,” Pepper admits with a sigh, “part of me wants to, but after what happened I don’t feel safe this close to him.”

 

“So does this mean I have to fend for myself when it comes to Christmas dinner?”

 

She hits his arm playfully and laughs. “Thanks for the priorities.”

 

“Any time. Seriously, though, sure you don’t want to stay? He doesn’t bite, I– okay, well I can’t promise, but he hasn’t bitten anyone on Earth yet as far as I’m aware. Who the fuck even knows what happens on Asgard, they’re all crazy up there.”

 

“I have family nearby who I haven’t seen in over a year, I’ll be fine. It’ll be nice to see them.”

 

He pouts.

 

“Oh, hush. You’re just jealous that they’ll get better food than you.”

 

“It’s a valid concern!”

 

Pepper rolls her eyes and pulls him into a kiss. “Since you’ll miss the mistletoe,” she says with a smile.

 

“I still want to hear about Tokyo, you’d better call me. Otherwise I’ll have Jarvis flash porn on the screen while there are kids in the room.”

 

“Merry Christmas to you too, Tony.”

 

When the elevator dings and the doors open, he calls after her.

 

“Merry Christmas, Pepper.”

 

*’*’*

 

Loki’s sitting in the bathroom when he returns, generally looking like shit. Tony sighs.

 

“How’re you feeling? I mean, not good obviously, but…” He sits beside the god, staring at the wall. “Crisis averted, by the way. Pepper’s going to live and let live on this one, jury’s out as to whether she’ll be hanging out here in the future. Apparently it’s treason to harbor an interplanetary war criminal, or something. Who’da thunk?”

 

The silences between the two of them are a lot more natural than the one he’d faced with Pepper. Funny how things change in, what, a day and a half? Granted, it’s been one of the longest days of his life, which is saying something. He’s sat through Stark Industries board meetings before, and not the fun kind. More the kind where people keep going on about investments and budgets and stuff. It’s not like they’re exceptionally low on funding right now, there’s not _that_ much to discuss—yeah, keeping track of things is good, but they’re a little overboard on that whole topic.

 

Wait, so, if Pepper’s right, is he a traitor? To the entire planet.

 

Now he really has done everything.

 

Huh.

 

The god moans again and pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging them and tearing up. “ég skil ekki, ég vil b-bara að það að hætta hvers v-vegna… er ég að deyja svona? ég gerði ekki-… h-hvað er að gerast við mig? hvers vegna ert þú hér? ég er r-ruglaður, ég vil bara það allt að h-hætta að m-meiða…”

 

He doesn’t have to understand the words to get the meaning behind them; Tony’d be scared too, if it were him. All things considered, Loki’s handling things incredibly well—he’s a master when it comes to schooling his emotions and controlling himself. That’s what makes it so much harder when he _does_ break down. It’s obvious that he’s in a lot of pain.

 

After a few minutes it becomes clear that the god’s not planning on moving anytime soon thanks to what Tony’s guessing is the nausea. He decides to gather a couple blankets to at least help make him comfortable—it’s not the greatest help, but it’s better than nothing. It seems to help a little, which he supposes is what counts, and now they’ve got a comfy little nest of dark teal pillows and grey fleece to camp out in until the bed is decided upon as the better option.

 

The more he’s around the god, the more he starts to wonder what he’s thinking about all this time while it’s quiet. If it were him, it would be plans and tech for an hour or so and then immense boredom would set in—he has to be doing something or he’ll drive himself crazy. Meanwhile, mister reindeer seems content to sit in silence without any fuss. It’s weird, but interesting. They’re opposites in that regard.

 

He’s pulled out of his musings by a brush of fingers over his own. It takes a couple seconds to vault his mind back into the present (it’s always been a problem of his that he’ll get caught up in his thoughts and have a hard time transitioning back), but once he is, he makes the connection and takes the hand in his. Loki doesn’t say anything, so neither does he, but the way the god relaxes speaks for itself. Tony’s never sure what to make of that—for the most part, the god is very standoffish and rarely seeks out any sort of contact, but when he has it, it’s the quickest thing to calm him down. Well, on the occasions that he doesn’t pull away or try to hurt him. Which has happened.

 

Loki’s eyes are closed and he tilts his head back, jaw clenched and breaths controlled.

 

Watching him now… he’s broken. Maybe he has been for a while, or maybe forever, but he’s definitely not in one piece. There’d been hints of that, when out of nowhere he’d be pinned to a wall or his gaze would go blank for a half a second while they were talking, but he hadn’t thought much of it—that was just Loki. Some crazy Asgard thing, because who the fuck even knows. But sitting on the bathroom floor next to him, the grip on his hand just this side of mortal-crushing, while the god arches up in pain and kicks out? This is Loki sans-walls, at least as much as he ever is.

 

He’s proven himself a terrifying force of willpower, fiercely intelligent (that day in the park when he could do ridiculous math in his head, just, woah), and a violent warrior. It’s not hard to tell why he would be considered an actual deity a millennia or so ago. He was untouchable. Even just talking in the coffee shop was always like watching a master play chess.

 

Tony had never meant to find the god like he had—if anything, he’d expected to need the suit in order to stop some world-ending plot—but suddenly he’s, well, not human obviously, but you get the point. In a way it’s humbling, but in the worst way imaginable. How Loki’s ended up here he doesn’t know, just that he’s not going to let him get stuck in this rut.

 

Because now, somewhere behind the fucked-up past and the layers of anger, there’s a person.

 

A very scared, confused person in a hell of a lot of pain.

 

Now that he’s seen him near-dead by his own hand, scared out of his mind, sobbing in pain and frustration, begging for morphine, and calling out in the midst of nightmares, he’s not a god. At least not entirely.

  
He’s Loki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Disclaimer: The opinions on the logicality of bread storage expressed by Tony Stark herein are solely those of the asshole and do not necessarily reflect the views of the author.


	14. Dread

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late—well, technically it's not since I never promised you anything, but still—I've been desperately trying to finish my last portfolio piece in time for reviews. It's becoming a nightmare. Hopefully it'll be done tomorrow, so if there's a delay again it should only be for a night.
> 
> And seriously, thank you so much for all the incredible comments, you guys make my day more than you realize. You're the reason I keep writing as devotedly as I do. I'm behind in replying, but I'll try to get through that tomorrow as well.

Around two in the afternoon, Loki’s lying upside-down in an armchair complaining about anything and everything in Asgardian. Tony’s long since rolled his eyes and given up on trying to keep him occupied or involved in anything, because the god seems quite determined to drive him insane with the constant moaning. And not the pain kind, either, just the my-life-is-awful-pity-me sort. It’s hard to tell if that means he’s feeling better or worse.

 

Part of him secretly hopes it means he’s feeling worse, because if he’s going to keep this up as he gets better, then Tony will have to throw _himself_ out a window.

 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, will you please just _shut up_ for five minutes?”

 

“Hvað sem þú ert að fara á um, mér er sama. Þú ert viðbjóðsleg hálfviti með ekkert vit á virðingu eða hegðun og það er fyrirlitlegur,” the god spits back with a scowl. “Ég er orðin leið tilveru þína og vona að valkyrjunum að næst þegar þú ferð á að berjast sumir sorglegt vildi-vera illmenni þú deyja hægt og ragir dauða.”

 

“Jarvis, do I want to know?”

 

Loki jumps when the AI speaks, but whatever. He can get over it if he’s so determined to give Tony a headache.

 

“Probably not, sir. He was insulting your existence and informing you that he hopes you die.”

 

Naturally.

 

“Really? Were you, like, born with the asshole gene or what, because last time I checked it was me who was putting up with your sorry ass while you steal my bed and go for romps in the snow.”

 

“Sonur hóra.”

 

“I’m not going to translate that for you,” Jarvis informs him, “as I feel the end result would be less than desirable.”

 

“Þegiðu, heimskur tölva, ég hata þig líka.”

 

“Your comment will be noted and taken into consideration in the future.”

 

“Wait, Jarv, what’d he just tell you?” Tony sits up from where he’s sprawled out on the bed, flicking the volume mesh he’s been toying with back up to a comfortable working height.

 

“A shortened version of his message to you.”

 

Yep, no denying it—Loki’s a dick. Please remind him why he thought this would be a good idea? Uggh… He needs Pepper. Pepper would know how to manage the god—she knows how to handle _him,_ after all. Come to think of it, how does she even do that? Considering he’s, well, Tony Stark.

 

*’*’*

 

Does the mortal never stop prattling on about useless things in that lazy, limited language? He doesn’t need to understand the words to know that they’re only there to fill the quiet. It’s obnoxious.

 

Loki is _bored._ Bored beyond all reason, and were it not for this recent development then this amount of boredom would usually end poorly for those around because he’d use it to plan. Right now his head is hurting too much for that, though, so instead he decides to make the idiot shut up by speaking himself. Within ten minutes there’s blessed silence from the other man, and he’s free to ramble about anything or throw empty insults at him. The latter is far more fun than the former, and he currently feels like he’s been trampled by goats, so he goes with that.

 

At present, there’s a ridiculous amount of pain shooting from his neck down his spine and to his heels. What manner of nonsense is this, anyw–

 

Thrice-cursed huntress, make it _stop–!_

 

He turns right-side-up and finds the chair makes a much better pillow than it does a seat. For whatever reason, one of the blankets is exceptionally comfortable, and he’s decided that if he’s going to die in agony, he’ll at least do so with something soft. Plus, if he pulls it over his head, he can pretend he’s a valskjálf.

 

Is he acting like he’s three hundred and twelve? Yes.

 

Does he care? Not as long as the mortal doesn’t know.

 

Quite frankly, his mind keeps cycling through every age imaginable and it’s not worth trying to control. Some moments he’s back in the palace gardens hiding between bushes, some he’s clawing his way through the snow after escaping his bonds on Asgard. It hardly matters; his body is falling apart, and whatever motivation the man has to pretend to care, there’s no point in refusing food and a bed. It’s only to be expected, after all, he is a prince, and the lower class would be expected to offer him food and board were he to arrive at their residencies. They just wouldn’t usually watch him fall like this. There’s a reason he keeps trying to escape—wasting away in the home of a mortal is no form of honor. It would be far better to find a nice place in the forest to curl up and let Urðr tie off his thread.

 

*’*’*

 

Loki is possibly the most confusing, contradictory person that Tony’s ever met. One minute he’s curled up in his lap, the next sitting sideways on one of the armchairs, and three seconds later he’s baring his fangs and storming around the room with the blanket billowing out around him (apparently he’s come to learn the room to a decent degree, although sometimes he’ll bump into something that’s moved, at which point _watch out if you enjoy staying alive)._

 

He might be smart, but the god is so completely illogical that there’s no way he’ll ever even come close to figuring him out.

 

Currently, the angry tyrant piece of the cycle seems to have subsided, which is nice for the most part. Unfortunately, though, it turns out that the whining before wasn’t Loki feeling better, not by a long shot. Maybe he was temporarily, but now the god is learning the hard way why it’s called ‘kicking the habit.’ To be honest, the anger is probably going to come back full-force when he stops whimpering, because if there’s one thing that’s become abundantly clear it’s that Loki absolutely _loathes_ not being completely in control all the time.

 

They both already knew he had a temper. Those two combined don’t lead to happy endings for anyone involved.

 

It’s a slow and painful Christmas day, and for Loki’s part it’s gotta feel like this is never going to end. When all this is over, though, Tony’s going to be in a really bad position, having seen the god at his weakest. There’s probably going to be backlash for this. Oh well, no fun in living safely.

 

On the plus side, there’s tech being planned, so that’s always nice—another day of work and then Jarvis can have a prototype made for testing.

 

At one point, Loki yells something that sounds particularly unseemly at Jarvis until more music starts playing. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d probably get killed for doing it, Tony would break down laughing at the absurdity of it all.

 

*

 

Aside from a couple moments of comedic relief, after around four thirty things start going downhill quickly. The kicking gets worse, Loki is tossing and turning almost constantly, and is swinging between hot and cold at a speed that Tony didn’t know was physically possible. He obviously needs food—but can’t keep anything down for more than an hour—and looks absolutely exhausted.

 

The begging starts again.

 

Were it not for the fact that he knows this will end soon, he might even be inclined to give in just to ease the god’s pain. He’s honestly surprised that Loki hasn’t torn the sheets with how hard he’s been clawing at the mattress. That whole thing about ‘the bigger they are, the harder they fall’ seems to hold true.

 

“h-hvers vegna verður þú ekki láta mig draga úr s-sársauka? annaðhvort hjálpa mér eða láta m-mig deyja, vinsamlegast…. ekki d-draga þetta út. þ-það er engin heiður í d-dauða eins og þetta! minnsta k-kosti að keyra mig í gegnum með hníf!”

 

Jarvis translates, and Tony pales.

 

“Loki, no, I’m not doing that. I swear that this will get better, the worst is almost over.”

 

The god cries out, then stares up at him, eyes red from tears. “h-hjálpa mér!”

 

_Help me._

 

He climbs onto the bed, kneeling at his side. “Loki.” The asgardian looks up in his direction again, and he tugs on his sleeve. “Come here.”

 

Of course, he hesitates as usual, but another insistent tug is enough to convince him. Once he’s sitting, Tony pulls the god toward him, and before he can even register what’s happened he has a lap full of desperate, clingy Loki. He’s shaking and panting, and rests his head on Tony’s shoulder.

 

This is kind of awkward.

 

On a scale from one to being drawn and quartered, burned alive, cut into a thousand pieces, and strung up across the skyline—how dead will he be when Loki realizes he’s survived this? Considering the whole honor thing that Asgard seems to be ridiculously obsessed with, probably the more extreme end of the spectrum. Fuck everything.

 

A few minutes later, the god whispers one word against his neck.

 

“vinsamlegast-…”

 

_Please._

 

For a moment, everything becomes surreal at just how serious Loki is about this. The seconds feel like an eternity as he tries to process how they’ve come this far.

 

“Loki. I’m not going to kill you. And I swear to whoever the fuck matters that if you try that yourself, I’ll make all of this seem like a scrape on the knee.” He can feel the god’s heart racing—a byproduct of the adrenaline the withdrawals are so kindly providing—and he’s so tense he’s going to crush Tony if he’s not careful. There is honest danger to his life right now if Loki doesn’t ease up a little bit.

 

“ég get ekki tekið þetta, ekki gera mig meiða svo illa áður en ég dey. bara enda það! bara stöðva sársauka, ég get ekki tekið það aftur!”

 

“I am _not. Going. To kill you!”_

 

*

 

Ten twenty-seven is the worst. Ten twenty-seven is when Loki stops begging, stops moaning, stops making any noise of pain at all. He’s still drenched in sweat, kicking out in both pain and involuntarily, digging his nails into his hair, arching up off the bed… at one point he has his face buried in a pillow, clutching it to his chest like his last hope at survival, and fights with everything he has to stop moving. It works for a few minutes before his resolve breaks and he goes back to shuddering. Occasionally he’ll stop long enough to retch, but it’s been so long since he’s kept food down that it’s never more than that.

 

When his body fights back, it fights back _hard._ No wonder why it’s so bad—if he was on this shit long enough to get dependent, and he adapts as quickly as Thor does, then he had to be upping the dose ridiculously. Coming down off of that cold turkey is compacting all of the effects into the very opposite symptoms and looping them as feedback.

 

In some ways, he wonders if he should have tapered him off of the drugs slowly to let his body acclimatize to the change. It might have helped, and the god would have understood it better, but the chances of him fighting or relapsing that way would be absurdly high. Loki likes to think he knows better than everyone else in the room, and that the truths of the world don’t apply to him. This is what Tony’s done, though, and there’s no way back except to restart everything and force the god through this again.

 

Thing is, that once this passes, it should all get easier from here on out. That’s not to say it won’t be difficult and trying at times, but this is the hardest that the withdrawals will hit. He knows Loki is strong enough to do it, however much pain he’s in.

 

Hell, after this, Tony’s never going to complain about something hurting ever again.

 

The god doesn’t sleep much that night, if he does at all. Tony tries his best to stay up with him, which usually wouldn’t be hard, but he dozes off a couple times only to awake five minutes later at Loki’s next whimper.

 

At one in the morning, the worst has slowly subsided. Loki’s exhausted (and with good reason) but alive, and he’s going to count that as a victory. Around three he quiets again—thankfully because he’s not feeling so bad this time—and by four thirty he’s ravenous. Tony’s doesn’t let him have anything that could be hard on his stomach, but it’s a really good thing that Happy went overboard on the grocery shopping because asgardian metabolisms are _ridiculous._ Six forty-five sees the god slip into a restless sleep.

 

In the meantime, he decides to use the time to his advantage to take a shower, get something to eat, and all those things that normal humans do and he tends to forget about. Unbeknownst to him at the time, Pepper had left a box of homemade Christmas cookies and chocolates.

 

Has he ever mentioned how incredibly awesome she is?

 

“Hey, Rudolph. How you feeling?” he asks when he returns to find the god sitting against the headboard looking incredibly pissed off.

 

Loki snarls back, “Þú ert sadismar, ansi dauðlega án miskunn, ég ætla að drepa þig eins óþægilegt leið og þú neyddi mig til að þola.”

 

“He would like to inform you, sir, that you are an awful person.”

 

“There is no way that’s all he said, Jarvis.”

 

“You are correct, but that is the distilled and less offensive version.”

 

Tony laughs. “Right. Thanks, buddy.”

 

“Any time.”

 

If anything, Loki’s glare is more terrifying for being blind.

 

“Láta mig í friði.”

 

Jarvis interprets again, which still makes the god flinch—he really needs to ask about that later. “He says he would like you to give him space.”

 

When Tony doesn’t make any indication of leaving, the god’s voice drops to a dangerous tone.

 

“Láta. Mig. _Í friði!_

 

Right. Yeah. Looks like the reindeer’s angry about that whole thing after all.

 

It’s probably best not to push Loki when he’s this upset unless he’s asking for pain, so he takes the cue to leave.

 

*

 

He doesn’t see the god for the rest of the day, and isn’t stupid enough to go back in there unless Loki asks for him or Jarvis tells him he’s in immediate danger. Instead, he spends the day in the workshop, catching up on projects that he’s been putting off and setting up machines down on the fabrication floors to make the parts he’ll need for the one he was working on over the past two days. With the music cranked up to unhealthy levels and more screens up than even he can reasonably use, he can finally find a small slice of normalcy amongst the crazy.

 

Were it not for the concern constantly in the back of his mind at present, he’d take the suit out for a joyride. There’s something impossibly satisfying about just him and a little metal suit soaring above the city, up past where any planes have flown and then out across the Atlantic if he feels like it. Other times he’ll spend an hour doing stupid tricks just for the hell of it—if he’s able, why wouldn’t he? It’s an amazing rush of adrenaline that’s also really effective stress relief.

 

As things stand that’s not going to happen, so he keeps busy and tries to get as much done as possible in case more shit comes up—with the god or otherwise. He even spends a few minutes on the paperwork Pepper left him, in apology for the slightly unfortunate surprise she got on Christmas yesterday.

 

The day passes slowly, although not nearly as slowly as the past couple. A few hours later the pieces for his current project have finished so he collects them and spends another couple hours soldering, screwing, and gluing everything together, then uploads the software and smiles. He’s a genius. Take that, dad.

 

Eventually, he falls asleep on the cool glass of his desk. He dreams of caves and tunnels, of life in the dark, and of desperation.

 

*

 

Tony wakes the next morning in the same place he nodded off, with the imprints of a pair of pliers and a couple screws on his cheek—don’t even ask how many times that’s happened. Once he’s out, he’s out cold, regardless of where he’s lying.

 

He wanders upstairs to get coffee, still half asleep, and finds Loki brewing tea. The god still looks like shit, but a bit less so than before. Things should start looking up now that they’re this far. Loki glances over when Tony enters the room, but otherwise ignores him.

 

“How’s the reindeer on this fine winter morn?”

 

It’s not hard to hear the scowl when he speaks. “The threat to kill you still stands.”

 

“It speaks! Well, speaks English, you were already speaking. But still! Hooray!” Tony exclaims.

 

“Oh, please forgive me,” Loki replies, voice dripping with sarcasm, “for focusing my energy on lessening my pain instead of translating your pathetic excuse for a language.”

 

“Woah, man. Sorry. It’s kind of my job to say dumb things for the hell of it, thought you’d realized that by now. Speaking of hell, it’s nice to see you slightly less moaning in pain.”

 

The god doesn’t grace that with a response.

 

“Right, so, do you really not know what withdrawals are?”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

He sighs. For once, it’s not nice to be right about something. “Withdrawals. The reason you’ve been less than thrilled with existence the past few days. The twitchy, hurty, sicky shit that’s pretty much put you out of commission.”

 

“I don’t recognize the term.”

 

“When you’re on certain drugs for so long, you start to tolerate them. After a while, you become dependent, and then going off them means your body has to readjust—it’s not fun. Some are worse than others, but opiates tend to be nasty.”

 

Loki laughs darkly. “I feel that would be an understatement.”

 

“Well, sorry, cold turkey’s not the nicest way to go. It’s not like I had morphine around to taper you off, though, and you weren’t exactly being helpful in the communications department. Should start getting better now, though. Sorry for the sucky Christmas, that was unfortunate.”

 

The water finishes boiling, and since when did they have a tea infuser? He’s just been grabbing tea bags out of the cupboard. Schmancy.

 

“Seriously though, man, how are you?”

 

The god pauses and turns his head slightly in his direction. “I do not see how that is any concern of yours. Could I see, you would be dead already for your treatment of me. I am not incapable of handling myself, and do not need to be coddled like a babe.”

 

“Riiight… because you totally didn’t climb into my lap and cling to me like a baby koala.”

 

Loki tenses, growling dangerously. “I did nothing of the sort, and if you dare to insult me such again, you will not enjoy the consequences.”

 

“Dude. Chill. Not the end of the world, I don’t care that you decided to get all cuddly when you felt like shit.”

 

Apparently the tea isn’t as important as it seemed, because the god is a foot away from him before he can blink. “You have no right,” he snarls, “to act as a superior to me. I am no child, mortal, I am a god and a king.”

 

God of Lies? More like god of denial. “Ah, hate to break to you, Rudolph, but you _were_ a king. Now  you’re just a god. Which is still pretty fancy and all, but get off your high hors–”

 

There’s a sickening crack as Loki’s fist connects with his face, and a sharp pain shoots through his jaw. He brings a hand to his mouth only to find  it comes away with blood; Tony stares at the god, down at his hand, and then back up.

 

They’re both breathing hard in anger (and pain, in his case), eyes wide.

 

He’s frozen in place for a moment, trying to process—in all the time that they’ve known each other, since the park god only knows how many months ago, Loki’s never hurt him. Threatened him? Yeah, of course. He’s been pinned against walls, found the god’s hands rather tightly around his throat, and been shaken around a bit… but even when he’d been knocked out on Christmas eve, he’d only been a little sore from lying weirdly. It had been an unspoken understanding that they’d yell at each other and generally give each other hell, but it would never _actually_ be more than empty threats.

 

He’d trusted Loki.

 

First mistake, and an incredibly obvious one looking back. The second was not having stopped while he was ahead.

 

Tony never thought Loki would actually injure him. The metallic taste of blood isn’t unfamiliar, but certainly not something common or enjoyable.

 

Neither of them say anything, him staring at the god, and the god staring back in his direction as though it had taken him by surprise. When the betrayal has sunk in, he turns and leaves to get his jaw checked out.

 

*.*.*

 

Loki stands in shock as the mortal walks away.

 

He hadn’t meant to do that. Even when his anger has run high and his blood boiled, he’s never actually struck the man before.

 

One minute he’d been angry, furious with the mortal for speaking as he had, but even more so for his actions over the past few days. They were degrading, cowardly, and dishonorable, and he loathes himself for being so weak. For showing it to someone like Stark. And they argued, and he was scared and upset, and then the mortal had made the biggest mistake he could in bringing up the most painful memory he has—the day of his complete betrayal.

 

He hadn’t realized his hand was moving until after the fact.

 

He doesn’t know if he held back any of his strength or not.

 

Loki’s stomach drops. This is bad; this is really bad. Stark is– _had_ been inexplicably kind to him. Illogically merciful, understanding, and patient even though he doesn’t even remotely deserve it. It doesn’t make a lick of sense, but the mortal had done so anyway.

 

And Norns—Loki hasn’t missed the fact that he’s called him a friend, multiple times, to multiple people, and never sounded insincere. It’s frightening, actually, especially considering that he doesn’t even consider the Avengers to be as such. Loki’s purposefully ignored the subject since he doesn’t know how to address it.

 

Stark has, for reasons completely unbeknownst to him, saved his life and stayed by his side for days while he recovered, doing everything he could to ease his pain.

 

How has Loki repaid that debt?

 

By destroying whatever trust someone had actually put in him. Granted, only a fool would dare trust him, but nonetheless. He assumes this is what guilt feels like, if only a tiny amount, although he could be wrong.

 

_Damn._

 

He should probably come up with another escape plan considering Stark will almost certainly come after him now (likely with the full force of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers now that he’s proven to be slightly less reformed than the mortal had previously seemed to think), but judging from the fact that he’d been found even in the tunnel shows that it will be nigh impossible to truly hide from a man like him.

  
With a resigned sigh, Loki decides that if all is about to fall to Muspelheim then at least he should finish off the tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't look at me like that, you knew there was going to be backlash after what happened.
> 
>  _‘Koma hér’_ in Icelandic translates to ‘come here,’ hence why Loki was able to interpret the meaning when the words were paired with a non-verbal indication of what was being asked.
> 
> Also, the tea he's made is ginger vanilla chai. No, I don't know why I decided that or how i did. It just happened.


	15. Fractures

Unfortunately (although not unsurprisingly), it turns out his jaw is broken—in two places. Fucking ungrateful gods. That means he ends up with metal plates, archbars, wiring… the whole nine yards. A month or two of eating soft shit? Hell no. 

Fuck his life.

Fuck Loki.

Fuck everything.

He doesn’t let S.H.I.E.L.D. get their hands on him, because he’s pissed a few too many people there off and doesn’t trust them as far as he can throw the helicarrier. Instead, he ends up back with the same doctors who’d done the reconstruction when he’d had the arc reactor removed. They do good work, especially considering how much he’ll pay without thinking twice. He needs them to—where would the world be without his pretty face?

When he wakes up a few hours later from surgery, he feels even more like shit than before. Anesthesia is hellish, and now everything’s fuzzy and a little silly looking, so he decides the bed is comfortable enough and falls back asleep.

After a nice little nap—and convincing the doctors that, no, he’s not going to wander around eating gobstoppers and caramels—Tony finds himself in the not-nearly-used-enough theatre in the tower, and boots up the PS4 to play Assassin’s Creed. At one point, one of the people looks like Loki so he stabs him… and gets kicked out in a desynchronization for killing civilians. Dammit.

Briefly, he considers whether or not the god would like the game if he could see. There are a few outfits that remind him of the crazy green armored stuff the asgardian seems to like wearing, which he switches to and goes around assassinating people and pretending it’s Asgard. This probably isn’t a good sign in regards to his mental state, but whatever—his face hurts and Loki’s an ass. After a while he lets himself be caught so Loki-him gets run through with a sword.

Yeah, probably not a great indicator of his sanity at all. Whoops.

He reverts back to red and gold again after he’s died, and blows through a few more levels before getting bored and switching to something else. The pattern continues for a few hours, playing different games and stabbing/letting himself get stabbed whenever he finds characters that remind him of the asshole asgardian.

One of the wires catches his lip. Ow…

Hunger gnaws at his stomach, but the painkillers, while not helping that much with the pain, haven’t worn off yet and his mouth feels too weird to eat.

Life sucks so badly.

*.*.*

The mortal neither steps onto the floor again nor sends word to him, and it’s more than slightly discomforting. That evening he asks the computer—Jarvis, its name is, he’ll have to remember that—as to Stark’s condition, and learns that he’d broken his jaw. That’s an unpleasant injury even for a child of Asgard, so there’s no telling how it affects a human.

Loki didn’t mean to do that.

It’s too late to take back his actions, though, and he learned long ago that it’s not worth bothering to try. It’s the man’s own fault, he tells himself, for acting so brashly when he is well aware of Loki’s nature.

That evening, when Stark still hasn’t returned, he finds his blanket and curls up to sleep on the couch. It’s best not to take what is not offered when in a position such as this. Besides, it's quite large and not the least comfortable place to sleep, so still far better than the tunnel floor had been. He can hardly complain.

Admittedly, he does miss the mortal’s presence when the pain flares up again that night. Degrading as it may have been, the companionship is rare and surprisingly pleasant. Ah, well, it’s hardly Ragnarök. That is yet to come.

*

The next day is spent in likely deserved boredom, with much tea and toast (despite how the mortal kept complaining about it, the toaster is not truly that difficult to use). The puzzle that Stark had given him a few days ago is still on the nightstand so he spends a few hours upside down on the sofa scrambling and solving it again. By midday he’s figured out the pattern, making it far less interesting, so he yells at Jarvis until he plays music again. While he loses himself in the sound, he toys with the cube to keep his hands busy.

Another morning comes and goes, spent in much the same fashion, although that evening he starts rooting through cupboards and shelves to find something more interesting to cook. His stomach remains less than content, but he’s sick and tired of tasteless food. The mortal still has not shown himself, for better or for worse, and he’s confused as to why S.H.I.E.L.D. has not yet appeared. Is Stark waiting for him to drop his guard again? That makes little sense, considering he’s regaining health as the days go by, but then again the man’s smart enough to know he’ll realize that, thus dropping his guard… it’s cyclical logic, and makes his head hurt. Again, that night he falls into a troubled sleep on the couch, curled up under the soft blanket.

Sunrise creeps up again, the glass windows letting rays of warmth caress his skin as he stretches. After two months belowground, the bed and warm food are blessings. Food at all is a blessing, when it comes down to it. And _norns,_ the ability to take a hot shower… it’s incredible. He decides that with so much time on his hands a bath is just as well, so he spends long enough relaxing in the water that he loses track of time. The soreness that has become a constant slowly eases to a more manageable level.

When he eventually decides that he’s had enough (which truly is a long span of time) and goes to fetch his clothes from the bed, he’s met with something quite different than he expects.

Loki becomes very, _very_ confused.

In place of the sweatpants he’d left is a bundle of clothes—a pair of jeans, a v-neck, the leather jacket he’d bought on a whim, his softest scarf… and the boots and gaiters he’s kept in meticulous condition ever since his flight from Asgard, since they’re the only pieces of his past that remain. It makes absolutely no sense. Changing into something that both fits and is _his,_ though, makes him feel more like himself than he has in a very long time. The boots especially.

Beside them, he finds two boxes. One is incredibly familiar—his violin case; Loki bites his lip and his brow furrows. There’s only one logical way any of this could have gotten here, but…

_Why?_

Set on top of the case is a much smaller box, just larger than his hand and a couple inches deep. The sides are smooth, but not glossy, and four letters are embossed in braille across the lid.

_LOKI_

The only imperfection is the seam running around the perimeter where the lid meets the bottom section. Cardboard slides apart easily under his fingers and he’s met with sleek, cold glass set into a cardboard insert. Tilting the box, the phone tips into his hand.

He lets his gaze slip off to the side while he learns the object by touch. It’s not an iPhone like he’s had, and there are only three buttons—two on one side and one on the other—which he assumes are for power and volume control. There’s also a small switch just large enough to be clicked back with a fingernail, although its function is as of yet unclear, and his name is engraved on the back. That’s all there is. No headphone jack, no charger port, no camera or flash like the humans seem to be so fond of, just three buttons and a switch. It’s sleek, thinner than any phone he’s felt, and light, with the perfect amount of weight and grip. Actually, it feels like it’s made for his hand.

Was it?

He doesn’t understand…

Under the insert is a new bluetooth headset in the same cool materials as the phone, and a booklet written completely in Braille, titled _“Loki’s Sexy-Ass Phone: An Introduction for Idiots and Reindeer.”_ As it turns out, the rest of the manual is peppered with snide remarks and rude comments, which is so ridiculously Stark that it’s amusing. There’s also lots of obvious bragging about how the charging is completely wireless (and while the entire building is specially wired to maximize the effectiveness, only Stark’s newest, private tech can access it), the headset isn’t _bluetooth_ because that’s _so_ last-decade, it’s on the mortal’s personal satellite network, and is (apparently) completely untraceable.

When he’s finished the first couple pages and decided that most of the rest is boring manual stuff, Loki decides to skip the reading and turn it on. There’s one short vibration while it powers up, then he’s met with something which he hadn’t expected but is only slightly surprised by—the display is entirely tactile. Braille text, easily differentiable buttons and icons, and easily navigable controls which change as quickly and easily as the visual elements of the computers he’d seen used in the past fill the screen. It’s kind of incredible. Suddenly, he can access every function of the technology as effectively as any sighted person would, and people really don’t seem to understand how much of a difference that makes.

He grins.

The temptation to spend the next hours learning its workings is strong, but the urge to find solace in familiarity more so. Instead, he finds himself perched on the back of a chair in the common area with sunlight warming his face. His violin has fallen out of tune in the span of time he’s been away, so he tightens his bow and tunes it by ear. The weight of the instrument, the way it fits perfectly under his chin, the smell of rosin and wood… they make things feel a little more within his control. 

It’s not long before he’s lost in Paganini’s 24th Caprice, eyes closed and letting the music drown out his thoughts. That’s one of the reasons he loves playing so much—it’s a sort of meditation, in which his mind can finally rest in ways it won’t in his tormented sleep. He doesn’t notice when the door to the stairs opens or a man leans in the frame, watching him quietly with arms crossed.

*’*’*

Tony stands in the doorway and listens to the god play. He’s more attentive than people give him credit for, and despite the day’s shock, he hadn’t missed how relaxed and decidedly un-crazy Loki had seemed in the park while he was playing his violin. 

Is he pissed at the raven-haired god? Hell fucking yes. That’s going to put quite a dent in their relationship, but he hasn’t come this far to give up now. His mouth hurts like hell, sure, and the betrayal’s still strong—he honestly hadn’t believed that Loki would ever injure him, especially to this degree. Then again… he caught the look in the god’s eyes. The fear and panic behind the anger. He knows that look.

It’s the same one he knows _he_ gets when he lashes out at people in twisted self-defense.

Damn it all to hell, but Loki’s starting to grow on him. He’s kind of got this awful habit of being drawn to danger like a moth to a flame, and Loki’s all the worst things dumped in a nuclear reactor and set to blow. How can he possibly resist?

Seeing the god sitting there, finally comfortable again (still fighting off the effects of the withdrawals, but significantly improving as the days pass), makes him happier than he’d care to admit. The Asgardian boots with the black jeans is a little bit of an odd combination, but so incredibly _him_ at the same time that it just fits. Back during the battle when they’d first met, he never would have imagined Loki playing any sort of instrument, let alone violin, but again, seeing it now—it just makes sense (and it’s a little weird, but he’s started to notice that when he’s occupied, the seemingly involuntary twitches in the god’s hands seems to lessen if not disappear altogether). The whole thing is such an opposite image from the last time they’d stood face-to-face that it’s hard to believe the two men are the same person.

Tony leaves before Loki finishes the song, not wanting his presence to be known, but the picture is painted in his mind for a good while afterwards. On the way back down to the floor he’s been staying on (there’s a guest room three levels below the penthouse that’s comfortable which he’s set up computers and hologram equipment in) he asks Jarvis how the god had reacted to the phone. He’s been working on the design ever since he’d had the idea back while he sat with Loki during the worst of the withdrawals, and while it’s taken a bit of poking around to properly and effectively implement, he’s quite proud of the end result. Now that he’s figured it out he’s considering adding the function to future StarkPhones, at least as an optional add-on feature, because he’s never really considered how difficult it is to navigate the modern world—or any world—without sight. Little everyday things that he doesn’t think about he’s noticed the god struggling with, and that change could potentially do a lot of good for people who otherwise have to rely on idiotic contraptions like the pathetic attempt at an AI that is Siri. Google’s doing slightly better with the whole always-listening touchless Google Now thing, but it’s still nowhere near what he’s been introducing into his own designs. There’s a switch on the side of Loki’s phone that alternates the screen between normal and Braille modes in case the god ever reclaims his sight or another person needs to use it, but he assumes for the most part the Braille will win out. Once they’re on speaking terms again, they might have to have a chat to see how he can further improve upon the idea. It’s become a pretty fun challenge…

His fucking jaw hurts. Asshole.

Seriously, all the metal and rubber bands and shit are a nightmare to deal with, and he’s going to find a way to get back at Loki somehow. Later, though, when the god isn’t still going through withdrawals. He’s not _that_ cruel, even after what happened.

*

The days pass, and suddenly, before he expects it, the year inches towards its close on the thirty-first. It’s never been something he’s paid close attention to—so what if the calendar starts over? Why celebrate some arbitrary date? Birthdays sort of make more sense because, yay, you made it around the sun again, but new year’s? Like, what’s the point? It’s kind of dumb, except for the fact that there tend to be plenty of parties and cheap booze. The past couple years he hasn’t been in the mood for dealing with the shallowness of it all, so he’s opted for spending the time working on his cars or playing board games with Jarvis. Chess is pretty much impossible to win, but as long as the AI doesn’t stack the virtual deck (which he’s done before, the cheating bastard), he can sometimes win at Candyland.

For the most part he does the same thing this year, tearing apart an old and broken engine to replace parts and make improvements where he sees fit. Jarvis lets him know around eleven thirty that there’s going to be a fireworks show within view of the balcony, so he cracks open a bottle of champagne and sits with his feet hanging over the edge. If he falls, the Mk. 43 will catch him. Hopefully. He _thinks_ it’s stable this time, but after the whole 42 debacle who knows.

The city lights are bright, twinkling like manmade stars in grids across the horizon, and the slight haze that seems to surround more highly populated areas hangs overhead. It’s cold, but he grabbed a coat so that even with the wind this high up it’s not that terrible. The whole thing’s kind of pretty, in an artificial way.

At about eleven forty-eight, he senses a presence behind him. A moment passes, after which a dark silhouette lowers to the ground beside him, and stares silently out over the cityscape. Loki doesn’t speak, just sits at his side in silence.

Twelve minutes later the first rocket shoots into the sky and explodes in a shimmering burst of gold. The hissing sounds while they rise are familiar from years past, as are the booms and crackling that follow. It’s an impressive show (of course, considering it’s NYC) that lasts for what must be a good twenty minutes or so before the finale goes off with the sort of low vibrations that can be felt even where they sit.

When it finishes, while Tony is still staring out over the slowly-clearing smoke left in the fireworks’ wake, Loki stands quietly and walks back inside.

He knows the god well enough to be well aware that the only times an apology will be cross his lips are either sarcastic, questioning, manipulative, or a combination thereof. If the asgardian were to say “I’m sorry,” he’d laugh and tell him to get out. To be honest, Tony's pretty much the same way. Apologies, gratitude, etc. are all uncomfortable and stupid things, so he tends to avoid them.

Tony doesn’t expect Loki to apologize, and to be honest he doesn’t want him to since it wouldn’t mean anything. 

That, though, had felt sincere.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Story art, what? http://aconitine-apothecary.tumblr.com/post/71825317306/
> 
> Paganini's Caprice No. 24: http://youtu.be/_OKPUausH64
> 
>  **(Post-Posting Edit)** Awesome Disney textured-tactile-feedback tech: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/technology-24443271


	16. Memory

“Loki, we need to talk.”

A few weeks have passed since Tony became slightly more magnetic than he would have liked (he just got all the metal _out_ of his body, thanks). On the plus side, that means that goose-chase missions for Fury have been off the table, because while he could probably fight, he doesn’t particularly care to risk it. His jaw still hurts occasionally, but it’s the sort of sore that you get used to and, however irritating it is, becomes your new baseline. He can eat more stuff now, which is appreciated. Food is _awesome._ In the meantime he’s played what are probably too many videogames, and killed Loki look-alikes in about eighty-five percent of them. It turns out to be good anger-management. Maybe not necessarily healthy, but effective.

The god seems to have found an interest in his new phone (the Wikipedia page on him has mysteriously updated to include a few stories sourced to ‘a god, you ungrateful mortal swine’), and Tony’s got enough data from Jarvis to push a new update that will fix a slight bug in the screen refresh time—for a blind Asgardian guy, Loki can read pretty damn fast.

When he steps through the door from the stairwell, Loki’s head snaps up, immediately on-guard. In some ways it makes sense, but the guy really needs to loosen up a bit.

“Stark,” he acknowledges.

Tony kicks off his shoes and perches on the back of the couch across from him (since the god seems to think sitting on chairs the normal way is for losers) and he’s a little more comfortable being at least slightly level with him instead of below. They’re equals here, and he’s damn well going to act like it.

“How’s life?”

“I hardly think that’s what you’re here to ask me. You need not bother with pleasantries, they’re pointless wastes of time.”

Right. Fair enough, and he knows the god is smart enough not to think he was just here to play bingo or some shit… but this is still something he’d hoped to ease into. Then again, it’s Loki they’re talking about. Normal rules don’t apply. After making sure he has an easy escape route in the event that Loki decides he’s less than thrilled with their conversation, he gets straight to the point.

“Why’d you overdose?”

That seems to take the god by surprise. No clue what he’d expected, but apparently it wasn’t that.

“I’m sorry?” He leans forward, shifting a foot further out on the cushion so he can rest his arms on his legs.

“You overdosed. Why?”

Understanding withdrawals or not, Loki obviously knows what he’s asking about when it comes to this sort of thing. Not one to try and deny the obvious, he at least seems to answer honestly.

“It was mostly accidental.”

Be that as it may, the god’s wording is almost _never_ an accident. “Mostly?”

“My metabolism is much different from that of a human. It’s not like there are instructions for the proper dosage for a Norse deity. Even if there were, I’m afraid labels don’t tend to be written in Braille. Between that and the fact that my body adapts so quickly, there was no easy way to gauge how much to take.”

“That covers the accidental, I’m still waiting to hear the other bit.”

Loki shrugs. “I wasn’t being particularly careful.”

“Why were you even on morphine, anyway? And how the hell did you get your hands on it? That’s kind of a controlled-substance sort of deal.”

“Did you honestly presume,” the god says, rolling his eyes, “that I would spend any stretch of time here without making connections in the underworld? I know how to attain things I have need for, and I’m not particularly concerned about the legality of my methods now that I’m already on the run. It’s really pretty simple—I was in pain; I found medicine. It happens to take more than a couple tylenol to do me any real good.”

“So you decided an addictive drug was the way to go?”

“It’s hardly as though I knew in advance the effects such a thing would have on my body. Besides, even if I had, what applies to your kind does not necessarily to mine. Some of your most seemingly innocuous remedies would be extraordinarily poisonous to me, and some of your poisons medicinal.”

“Riiight…”

Loki adjusts one of his gaiters absentmindedly. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what? You can’t even see me!”

“I don’t need to,” he scoffs, “I can hear it in your voice.”

“Asshole.”

“I try.”

Well, he supposes that this is at least clearing the air a bit. As long as he ignores the metallic taste in his mouth and the subject matter, it almost feels normal.

“Totally called it on the underground lair, by the way. Scoff all you like, but you’re such a stereotypical super-villain. I’m a little disappointed that the only bones I saw were from rats, though.”

“I had to eat something,” the god replies nonchalantly.

Tony pales, suddenly feeling a little queasy.

“That was a joke, Stark. I wasn’t quite that desperate.”

“Right, okay, good. That was something I didn’t really need to think about.”

“Oh, come now. Are you truly so repulsed by the notion? I’ve been in the wilderness for long enough before to be perfectly content with stripping bark from trees and eating the cambium.”

“Wait, you’ve–”

Loki laughs. “What, resorted to such things?”

“But you’re, like, mister super-picky-eater.”

“The amount that your kind seem to think it is necessary to process and ‘enrich’ your food is disconcerting. By the Norns, how are you all not ill and dying? It’s no wonder your life spans are so short. Whilst I may prefer fine food and clothing, the royalty of Asgard is far different from that of Midgard. We’re hunters. Warriors.  _Survivors._ I’ve spent months at a time traveling through unkind territory on my own, and one must know how to hunt and gather what is available. Midgardians live despite their realm; we live as part of ours.”

He turns the information over in his head. It’s weird, thinking of Loki and Thor desperate out in the middle of nowhere, living off what they can find, but at the same time it makes a bit of sense. Tony’s seen how resourceful they can both be when the situation calls for it. Guess the god has a point.

“I’ll have to keep that in mind. We’ve kind of gotten off-topic, though, because unless I’m confused, we were discussing your little drug problem.”

“I hardly think I have a ‘problem,’ Stark.” Loki flashes the phone he’s been turning over in his hands. “Believe it or not I know how to use Midgardian technology, given a little time, and am perfectly capable of doing research. Your explanation of withdrawals was absolutely wretched, by the way.”

“It’s not exactly something most adults have to be taught, Blitzen; we kind of learn it growing up. Drugs are bad, kiddo.”

The god looks decidedly unimpressed. “As I was _saying,_ I highly doubt I have any long-term addiction. The dependency makes sense given the course of events, but the chances of it being any more than that are miniscule. It’s not as though I was taking it for years on end.”

“How long, then?”

“Two months?”

“Fuck, so essentially ever since we’d last talked. How often were you taking it?”

“As needed.”

“Which would be how much, exactly?”

The god shrugs. “Daily or so.”

“Loki…” Tony groans, “you’re a total idiot.”

“I resent your implications that I am anything near unintelligent.”

“Intelligent and smart are _very_ different things, Rudolph.”

Loki sighs and stands up, stretching. “I suppose such things are relative. It was not as though I was purposefully acquiring a dependency, I was just unaware of the possibility. Such things do not exist on Asgard, at least not in common knowledge.”

“You’re still avoiding the reason for the _mostly,_ and you won’t sidetrack me. Explain.”

“I don’t see why you’re so concerned,” the god replies, walking toward the wall of windows, “but if you’re so desperate for an answer, then it’s really rather simple—I wished the pain to end, and I didn’t much care how.”

Tony turns that over in his head, thoughts automatically searching and cross-checking data. The memories of their interactions and the god’s behavior do seem to fit a pattern.

The conclusion he reaches isn’t one he likes.

“Loki…” he starts, apprehensive, “are you suicidal?”

The god pauses for a moment, cocking his head, and sounds genuinely confused. “Am I what?”

“Suicidal.”

What? He’d said to be direct, and Tony’s not one for beating around the bush.

Loki laughs, resuming his path to the floor-to-ceiling glass. “You are truly awful at explaining Midgardian concepts. At this rate I shall need to hire an interpreter just to understand your speech.” He leans an arm against the window, forehead resting on it as he gazes sightlessly out over the city, a silhouette against the clouded grey evening sky.

Tony sighs, turning to rest one leg on the back of the couch so he’s facing him. “Is Asgard really all sunshine and daisies or something?” This conversation just became significantly more awkward than it already was, but now he’s worried and has to ask. “I mean, do you want to kill yourself?”

The god freezes.

*’*’*

Suddenly, the memories come flooding back. Memories he’d purposefully repressed, or his mind had rewritten for his own sake—of a throne, betrayal, and the weight of Gungnir… of red eyes, and gold hair, and _I will not fight you, brother!_

Of a frozen tree, a rainbow bridge, an explosion of crystal, and a moment of flight.

Of _No, Loki._

Of realization.

…of letting go.

*

There’s not enough air in the room, and his lungs can’t support what there is. It’s too much, too much, _too much._

He shudders, his heart pounding in his chest. 

Thor hadn’t thrown him, had he? His mind had tricked him in order to protect him.

There was nothing left there, no hope or love, and no point in the monster existing. His life had only ever been a lie and he a pawn—the first piece to be sacrificed when the time came. Expendable. Useless.

Of course he was the god of lies—he himself was the ultimate lie incarnate.

A kidnapped, caged relic, too despicable for even monsters.

He can’t breathe—

*

Were the glass any weaker, it would shatter under his fingers.

_No, no no no no no—_

_Make it stop…_

A gentle hand rests on the small of his back, and a quiet voice accompanies it.

“Loki… Loki, wherever you are right now, it’s not real. You’re in the tower, it’s only you and me, and you’re safe.”

Scared, can’t breathe— all he feels is the warm metal slipping between his fingers. All he sees is Thor’s fear, and Odin’s apathy.

“C’mon, Loki, focus on me. Come back to me, man. You’re alright.”

He chokes and slams his fist against the window, leaning his forehead on the cool glass and trying to focus on that.

Cold. Jötunheim. Monster.

Loki makes a beeline toward the fireplace and digs his nails into his sides to keep himself relatively present. When he reaches the blessed heat he sinks to his knees, leaning forward and gasping for breath. The calming presence returns, rubbing his back and reassuring him that he’s safe.

After a minute the contact disappears, much to his dismay, but returns to wrap a blanket around his shoulders.

“You’re alright, Loki… breathe…”

Hard as he tries, he can’t stop trembling. There’s definitely a reason his mind had rewritten those final moments in his memory. He didn’t— He couldn’t have—

He did.

Eyes tightly shut, Loki slows his breaths back down with long-practiced technique. For a few brief moments he sinks into a light meditation to clear his mind (it’s not incredibly effective, but at least takes the edge off), then sits back on his knees.

“You with me, Prancer?”

Slowly, he nods.

The mortal’s voice stays quiet, calming. “Alright, just keep breathing. You’re safe.”

Loki rests a hand against the glass surrounding the fireplace. It’s warm, but not warm enough—he wishes it were not present so that he could reach into the flame itself, although that would likely alarm the mortal.

“Flashback?”

“Y-Yeah,” the god stutters with another nod.

*’*’*

Wow. Talk about striking a nerve. What the hell was that?

Is this what it looks like when he freaks out? Kind’a hard to tell when it’s himself doing it, but he knows it doesn’t feel all that pretty. Whatever it was the god panicked about, it was bad.

He keeps rubbing his back, trying to calm him down—it seems to be working, if a bit slowly, but progress is progress and he’ll take what he can get.

“My a-apologies,” the god tells him. It’s more of an ‘excuse me, that was impolite’ sort of thing than an actual ‘I’m sorry,” but it doesn’t matter.

“Don’t apologize, that’s not exactly the sort of thing you can control. Considering my line of work, you’re not the first person I know to have this happen. It’s alright.”

Loki sighs, staring into the flame.

“Sorry, by the way, didn’t mean to trigger that. I probably should have been a little more careful with phrasing.”

“No,”  the god says, and shakes his head. “you had no way to know. I didn’t— It would seem there are things I chose not to remember. That is in no way your fault.”

“Still. I can be an asshat without even trying. That was kind of an invasive question.”

Pulling his blanket tighter around himself, Loki shifts to sit cross-legged and rests his head in his hands. “I—…” He takes a breath, steeling himself to say something, and Tony can see him tense. “Thor didn’t throw me from the Bifröst.”

“What do you mean?” He’s heard the story, but only pieces from Thor in passing when Loki is mentioned. Mainly that he’d smashed the bridge, Loki had been thrown off in the blast, and he hadn’t been able to reach him in time.

The god lets out a resigned sigh, and looks away. “I let go.”

There’s a pause while Tony gets the point.

Oh.

Shit.

That explains the panic attack, then, if Loki had forced himself to forget about his own suicide attempt. So does that mean that the day they’d stood on the roof and the god had looked out forlornly over the edge, the night before they’d run into each other again in the coffee shop, the overdose, the begging… that was all honestly serious, at least to some degree? He’d said the overdose was mostly accidental, so maybe not complete conviction, but at least serious enough about it to come pretty close with it. And apparently a very nearly successful attempt on the Bifröst.

No wonder he’s so fucked up about Asgard, if that’s his last memory of it.

Tony bites his lip and glances sideways at the god. “And what about right now?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you had the choice,” he asks, not sure if he wants to know the answer, “and were standing on the edge of a cliff, what would you do?”

Loki has to stop and consider that, and for a few minutes all that can be heard is the crackle of the fire.

“I don’t know. I suppose it would depend which way the wind pushed me.”

Is he seriously discussing suicide with a Norse god right now? This is so far past disconcerting that he doesn’t have a word for it. Loki might, he’s pretty good with that stuff, but it’s not really relevant to the topic at hand.

“What if I asked you not to?”

That seems to genuinely confuse him. “Why would you?”

Really? The asshole’s got some serious self-confidence issues, which is funny coming from, well, mister ‘kneel before my beautiful horns.’

“Because I wouldn’t want you to.”

Yeah, still not getting it, is he? The look on his face is actually kind of tragic. Damn stupid gods.

“Look, man, for better or for worse, you’re kind of starting to grow on me. You might be an asshole, but you’re kind of like the Grinch—okay, yeah, that reference just went way over your head, sorry—the point is that you’re not as bad as you let on. Fuck, this sounds really sentimental and shit. I’m bad at feelings. Moral of the story is that if that ever happened, I’d ask you to step away from the edge, okay? However convoluted it might be, you’re my friend, and I want you to stick around.”

Wait, is Loki crying? Granted, he’s not being very obvious about it, but that looks like a tear. Damn, this is not what he’s good at. Not even remotely.

If the god’s not going to make a fuss over it, though, then neither will he.

Silence settles over them while Loki processes, staring toward the fire and absentmindedly toying with the edge of the blanket.

Eventually he speaks, and it’s a topic change, but that seems fair enough after the rather over-emotional heart-to-heart shit that just went down. Something tells him it’s not just one of them who’s bad at handling emotions other than anger.

“Why didn’t you?” the god asks.

“Why didn’t I what?”

Loki sits up more, now that the previous conversation is over. “Call S.H.I.E.L.D.” It takes a little bit of guesswork, but he brushes his fingers lightly over Tony’s jaw, and looks honestly regretful.

He shrugs, watching the god’s expressions shift. “Neither of us deserve second chances.” Yep, there’s the confusion. “That’s exactly why I’m giving you one. Guys like us have gotta stick together, because nobody else will bother to give us opportunities to prove ourselves. Before you knew me? I wasn’t exactly a great guy. Still not, but I’m a little better, I guess.

“Stop freaking out every time something goes wrong, okay? I mean, don’t stab me or anything, it would be good if you at least _try_ to play nice, but if I wanted to hand you over, I would have done it by now.”

“You are completely illogical.”

Tony laughs. “Who are you, Spock?”

“I’m told that Vulcan ears are tapered; I do not believe mine are.”

“Oh my god, did you just get a Star Trek reference? And he’s only half-Vulcan, anyway.”

The god waves a hand dismissively. “Technicalities.”

He can’t help but break down into laughter at the sudden ridiculous turn the conversation’s taken. Soon enough Loki follows, and then they’re both giggling like three-year-olds even though it wasn’t even that funny.

“Stop,” the god manages to choke out “that’s not fair! And if I’m Spock then you’re a hobbit, because you’re so short you barely come up to my knee.”  
  
Tony scoffs in mock offense. “Excuse me? I’m not short, mister, you’re just ridiculously tall. I’m the perfect height, because my feet just touch the ground!”

Loki starts laughing again.

See? This is why he likes hanging out with the god.

“How do you even know Tolkien anyway? I mean, I guess you could have run across Star Trek on TV, but the _Lord of the Rings_ movies are pretty visual.”

The god holds up a hand and wiggles his fingers. “I can read, you know, and I made a point of learning the well-loved classics when it comes to Midgardian literature.”

“You are so weird.”

“What, because I like to know what’s going on in the realm I inhabit?”

“Ah… yep.”

“I do believe it is you who is weird.”

“Asshole.”

Loki rolls his eyes. “You have reverted to the same insults, I see. I’m ever so disappointed.”

“Yeah, fuck you.”

“No thank you,” the god says with a smirk.

“Again, whose mind is in the gutter?”

That earns him an innocent smile in return.

The next hour or so is spent in generally pointless banter, insults, and witty retorts. Loki asks him about a weird glitch in the braille display on certain web pages, which ends up in a rather involved conversation as to the basic mechanics of the screen and a collaborative effort to identify and find a solution to the problem.

There’s another thing he likes about Loki. He can hold his own—be it in sarcasm, science, or otherwise—and soaks up information as fast as Tony himself does. The god’s learning approach is quite different, but that makes it all the more interesting to watch. Instead of understanding the underlying principles and rules and abstracting from there, he works from theoretical back down to basics.

Sometime around midnight Loki starts yawning, and he’s starting to get tired himself. He’s guessing neither of them have been sleeping well lately. Tony stands and stretches, then offers a hand to the god, who doesn’t seem to think twice about the aid. Good. He could stand to relax a little.

When he comes back out from changing into sweats, Tony finds Loki curled up on the sofa. Come to think of it, there’s been a pillow and a pile of blankets there all day.

“Have you been sleeping on the couch this whole time?”

“Well, yes,” the god replies, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Considering that the only bed on this floor is your own.”

“I haven’t exactly been using it, I figured you’d taken over.”

“That would be impolite.”

Tony laughs. “Half the time you’re ridiculously concerned with that sort of stuff, and the other half you don’t give two shits. And you call _me_ irrational.”

Loki nods. “Mhmm.”

“You’re impossible.”

“As I said before, I do try. It’s good to know I’ve succeeded.”

Rolling his eyes, he points toward the bedroom before remembering the god can’t see. “Go. You get the bed tonight, I can take the couch. You’re the one still a little fucked up from withdrawals.”

“I cannot–”

“You can and you will, otherwise I’m going to just pass out on top of you, and that won’t be comfortable for either of us. Bed, you, now. Get.” He shoos at him until he moves, then falls backwards onto the sofa himself.

It really is comfortable, all things considered.

Loki finds his way into the bedroom, and they’re both out cold before the clock strikes one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, these two don't ever do what I tell them. That's not what I'd planned to happen, but there you are.


	17. Admissions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They ran away from me again.

“Why on Muspelheim are you still awake?”

He raises an eyebrow and runs a hand through his hair to tame the mess; it’s not particularly effective. “You really don’t know that much about me, do you, Rudol– what the hell are you doing?”

Loki’s sprawled out on the sofa with a spoonful of peanut butter halfway to his mouth, and finishes the bite before speaking. Pfft. Princely manners. “What does it look like? I was hungry.”

“You can’t just eat it out of the jar!”

“Why not?” The god licks the back of the spoon, and raises an eyebrow. “It would seem I’m faring just fine.”

He stares. “What if I wanted some?”

Scarred hazel eyes flick up in his direction. “Then I suggest you get a spoon because, in case you haven't noticed, I’m quite comfortable and have no plans of getting up.”

Tony’s not entirely sure how to react, so he says screw it and goes to find a spoon. Naturally, the god has taken the last clean one, and that means he has to actually _hand-wash_ something. Oh for fuck’s sake.

When he returns, Loki reluctantly bothers to sit up so that they can both fit and holds the jar in his direction. Tony steals a pretty large spoonful. Except it’s not really stealing, because that’s _his_ to begin with. The god doesn’t even bother handing it over, just takes it back once he’s gotten a bite to keep eating.

“Why are _you_ awake, anyway? It’s like four in the morning.”

“I thought I told you—I was hungry.”

“So you go for the _entire jar?”_

The god looks like him like he’s crazy. “Well, yes.”

“You know, most people would just take a spoonful.”

“Most people on this realm also don’t have the metabolism of a god. If you’re so worried, then buy another jar for yourself.”

“Won’t you just take it too when that one runs out?”

“Probably.”

“I hate you.”

Holy shit, since when could Loki do puppy-dog eyes?

The god holds a hand over his heart. “That hurts, Stark. You have mortally wounded me.”

“Yeah, yeah, stop being a drama queen and give me another scoop.”

With a scowl, he hands over the jar.

“Please and thank you.”

“You’re not even remotely welcome.”

Tony just rolls his eyes. Having lost his snack, Loki holds the spoon in his mouth and procures the Rubik’s cube from god knows where. Actually, that’s probably the most literally the phrase has ever been used.

“Can you please remind me how the hell I ended up hanging out with you?”

The god sets the utensil on the coffee table and sits back again, kicking his feet up. “I believe you decided it would be amusing to harass a blind man.”

Oh. Right. Whoops.

He laughs, scrambling the puzzle, and smiles. “I will admit that it has its merits.”

“What, me saving your sorry ass?”

“Well, I was referring to the peanut butter, but I suppose that was alright too.”

“You’re mean!”

Loki smirks. “Believe me, it could be an awful lot worse. I’ve been playing nice.”

“Playing nice? You knocked me out! How did you do that, by the way?”

He shifts onto his knees. “Come, I’ll show you.”

“I’m not that dumb, Blitzen, I’m not letting you demonstrate on me.”

Pouting, the god sits back again, this time against the armrest with his legs up on the couch, effectively pinning Tony. “Fine… but you’re no fun. You do, however, black out remarkably quickly. Look–” he holds up his arms, demonstrating. You loop your arms around your opponent’s neck, grab your upper arm on the other side, hand on your enemy’s shoulder, and move your elbows together. Simple blood choke—quick, effective, and causes minimal long-term damage. Not especially long-lasting, though, so whatever you have to do from there, do it in the next couple seconds. Better to assume they’ll recover quickly than move too slowly and face the consequences.”

“That’s actually kind of cool. Scary that you know it, but cool.”

“Oh, please. I learned that when I was barely toddling.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Loki crosses his legs with a laugh. “You’re very welcome. Do be careful, though, it’s dangerous if done incorrectly.”

He rolls his eyes. “Aren’t most things you do? I mean, most things you do are dangerous even if you do them right.”

“That’s rather the point of fighting. It’s good to know how to spar without killing your opponent, though. People don’t seem to like it when you slaughter their friends.”

“I really hope you don’t know from experience on that one.”

The god gives him a guilty look.

“You did _not!”_

He shrugs. “I was young, he attacked me with the intent to seriously harm. My plan was not to kill, but I miscalculated, and caught him a little higher with my knife than I intended. You would not _believe_ the scolding I got for that.”

Tony stares.

“What?”

“You _killed_ a kid, and you got a _scolding?”_

“It’s not like I made him suffer more than necessary. Once I realized it was a fatal wound, I broke his spinal cord at the base of his skull. It was a quicker death than he would have found from bleeding out. ”

He’s not sure how to respond to that, at all, so he settles for continuing the stare. “How old were you, exactly?”

“In relation to human age?”

Tony nods.

“I’m assuming you just verified—you do remember I can’t see, don’t you? Anyway, I would have been… seven and a half, eight years old?”

“The _fuck?”_

“Hmm?”

“You were _seven?”_

The god shrugs. “Somewhere around there. On Midgard, you train your soldiers very late in life. The first time I killed a man I would have been six and a half.”

Okay, that’s so fucked up there aren’t words, but definitely explains a hell of a lot about the Asgardian duo. Namely why they seem to find the whole non-lethal thing to be a waste of time. Talk about desensitizing youth—the moms who freak out over Pokémon need to get a little perspective.

“So is it normal for kids to go around offing each other for kicks, or what? No offense, man, but Asgard doesn’t seem as rainbows and butterflies as I keep hearing.”

“All things considered, we do have a rather long rainbow, but that’s largely beside the point. No, it’s not normal, and generally frowned upon, but when the situation requires…”

“Wow.”

“Such is life, and death for that matter. Those who cannot fight do not survive, and the fools who dared underestimate me did not either.”

He not-so-subtly scoots further away on the couch. Since Loki’s apparently decided he’s his new legrest it’s not like the god doesn’t notice, so he laughs, shoving Tony’s leg (gently, thank god; said god not being Loki) with his foot.

“You mortals are so squeamish; it’s funny. And, for the record, just because I have no qualms with killing, that doesn’t mean I necessarily wish to go on a murder spree. I’m not a mon– I’m not evil.”

“Never said you were, Data.”

Loki raises an eyebrow. “Are you honestly still on the Star Trek references?”

“But I finally found something you get!”

“Stark, believe it or not, I _have_ actually seen more than one TV show.”

“There’s a blind joke there, but I’m not going to make it.”

“Oh, shut up,” he replies, “you are insufferable.”

Tony laughs. “It’s a talent.”

*’*’*

The man truly _is_ insufferable—it’s a wonder he’s managed to survive in his company as long as he has. There’s so much constant prattle that he’s amazed the mortal can find any new combinations of words to say, but part of that is probably due to his habit of making them up when he doesn’t know how to explain something. It’s really quite hilarious how brilliant Stark is, yet so dreadfully awful at communication.

Absentmindedly, he twists the sides of the cube toward its solution while he thinks.  Ever since a few nights ago, when the two of them had spoken, he’s been trying to sort out his mind again. That memory… it’s not one he would be upset to give up. More than that, though (because he’s trying to put it out of his thoughts), he’s trying to figure out the answer to Stark’s question.

Does he want to die?

A few years ago, that would have been a resounding no. Even now, instinct tells him that he’s a survivor, and of course he doesn’t!

That’s the trained warrior. Underneath that, well… he’s tired. The truth is too much—more than he ever wanted to know—and ever since that fateful trip to Jötunheim, since he first saw that accursed blue swirl from his wrist up his arm, what ambitions he’d managed to cling to through the centuries crumbled to dust. Loki died that day, when he fell from the Bifrost, and now… now he doesn’t know what he is. Or who he is, if he’s anyone. He hadn’t failed when he let go, because it really did cause his end.

What’s left is exhaustion, and pain, and a void where hope used to lie. He lost everything that day—not just possessions or station, but everything he’d been and ever wanted to be. To be completely honest, he’s been pointedly ignoring it all so that he can focus on getting through the days one at a time. Is he in denial about what happened? Yeah, probably.

All things considered, his punishment for it all (things which the Odinson would have been praised for) is what he truly wishes to forget, but he has to remember as penance.

Loki’s grip on the cube tightens.

It’s all too much. There’s too much grief for the ghost of a memory that he’s become, and it’s destroying him from the inside out. The shadows that were once his closest companions are now enemies to be feared.

He sighs, tracing the scars on his lips absentmindedly.

“I would step over the edge,” he says quietly.

Stark pauses in the middle of whatever tangent he’s run off on now, confused by the sudden shift. “Huh?”

“Night before last, you asked what I would do were I standing at the edge of a cliff…” he says, giving his words context, and goes back to toying with the cube to keep his hands busy.

Speaking of such things is something his instincts shout against. It’s so far past weakness that it doesn’t even register, and would have made him an outcast if done on Asgard. At the same time, though, some dormant part of him screams _just listen to me–!_ Somehow, completely irrationally, the mortal fool has stopped counting as an immediate threat.

And to be completely honest (which is rare), he’s too far gone to control himself as much as he usually would. The man has seen him weak in so many ways, yet still he acts as though they are equals. When he’d asked, it hadn’t been out of mockery or pity, just… concern. As though he actually cares.

That’s yet another thing about Stark which he fails to comprehend.

“…I would step over the edge,” he confesses quietly.

The puzzle clicks quietly as he twists it aimlessly in the sudden expanse of silence.

What a fool he is, to think that this will in any way help, or that the mortal even truly wished to know. Will he finally realize what a coward has been sleeping under his roof?

Biting his lip, he swings his legs off the couch onto the floor so he can stand. “I should go–” He steps away, but fingers wrap around his wrist and tug gently.

“Don’t.”

“I–” Loki tries, but Stark cuts him off.

“C’mere,” the mortal tells him, and there’s a muffled sound as he pats the cushion beside him a couple times. “Sit your ass right on down.”

He hesitates, conflicted, and Stark takes the opportunity to pull him back onto the sofa while he isn’t resisting. Loki feels a wave of panic well up and fights to keep it controlled, wrapping his arms around himself and staring into the distance.

“If you absolutely don’t want to talk, you don’t have to, but at least stay. Alright?”

This wasn’t meant to happen. It’s not like he’s actually going to try anything, well, nothing he intentionally seeks out, at least–

“It’s alright to let the mask slip every once in a while, Loki. I get that you’re not the sort of guy to do it easily, but try to trust me. I know from experience—trying to wear that shit twenty-four seven never works out well.”

The twitch in his fingers always get worse under stress, and he feels around for the puzzle to keep his hands occupied. Stark must see his search, because he hands it to him.

“I really need to get you a more complicated one of those, for fuck’s sake, how quickly are you even solving it, anyway?”

Thankful for the distraction, Loki finishes it in under a minute. The mortal whistles.

“Not bad, considering you’re blind.”

He scowls.

“Hush, Rudolph, you know full well I’m not going to stop harassing you about dumb shit. It’s kind of my job.”

*

“By the Valkyries, I don’t want to see your childish nursery!”

“Excuse me, but it is an incredibly grown-up nursery. There's tequila in _my_ bottles.”

“That is a Midgardian form of alcohol, correct?”

“Oh my god, where have you been for the past decade? I mean, come on!”

“On another realm, primarily.”

“Shut up, asshole, that was rhetorical. I need to take you to a club or something. We can line up shots of everything and see how long it takes to get you completely wasted.”

Loki rolls his eyes, letting the mortal guide him through the halls, and tries to form a mental picture of the floor they’re on.

“This is an absolutely idiotic venture.”

“Dasher, I do _not_ want to find out what happens when you start getting _really_ bored after that incident with the microwave. Especially since I know that you know how to use one, which means that was on purpose.”

“But fire is fun…” he complains with a pout.

“Not in the microwave, asshole! You do realize how much I depend on that to eat, right?”

“Oh, please, like you couldn’t just build another. Stop complaining.”

“You almost burned the kitchen down!”

“I did not, stop exaggerating. There were a couple sparks, no more than that.”

“There were flames, mister blindy. And a fuckton of smoke.”

He laughs. “You speak as though my nose does not function. I was well aware of the smoke, and it smelled lovely.”

“You are impossible!”

“No, just highly improbable. Such are the issues of mortals attempting to understand a far superior race.”

“Oh, shut it.”

There are a handful of high-pitched beeps, then a lock clicks open. Once the pair of them have stepped through the door it closes behind them with a sigh, and the latch shuts. Stark tells Jarvis to black out the glass.

“Welcome to paradise, oh man of _superior race.”_

Loki pointedly looks around, then back toward the mortal. “It appears to look just like the hallway. And the common room. And the kitchen. And the–”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. I’d do a little _Masters of Disguise_ joke here, but it’s kind of visual. Oh well. Come on, follow me, unless you like tripping over scrap metal and falling onto a box of nails. Ah, watch out, you kind of have to step over– yeah, there you go."

How in Valhalla does the man even concentrate in a mess such as this? His own quarters are kept neat (save for a room of organized chaos, because… chaos), with everything in its designated cabinet or on the proper shelf. It’s rather a necessity if he doesn’t want to poison himself with a few particularly nasty acids. He nearly did once or twice as a child, and waking up in the healing ward—especially surrounded by cranky nurses—is always irritating. Especially when his blood is trying to catch fire. Literally.

After a little more haphazard navigation, Stark shoves him rather gracelessly into a chair (it’s one of the disturbing kind that is comfortable until you realize that it has wheels and _moves)._ He comments on the absurdity but the man just laughs. Rude.

“Jarvis, you get everything uploaded?”

“Indeed, sir. Would you like me to set up the software automatically?”

“That’d be awesome.”

There’s the hollow scrape of metal against glass, then a few variously pitched clangs as whatever Stark has shoved off the desk falls to the concrete floor. 

“Right, so, Loki—welcome to your new playground.”

He raises an eyebrow at the man. “I see a distinct lack of either playing or ground.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re blind. Shut up. Anyway, you’ve got three screens, all within easy reach—they should all be angled comfortably, but feel free to adjust them—and a tablet and stylus to your right if you need it for something. You know the setup of a normal qwerty keyboard, right?”

He barely manages a nod before the mortal is back to speaking a league a minute.

“Awesome, that makes things easier. That’s naturally, in front of you where a keyboard normally goes, although if you need one I’ve got custom shit you can set up how you like. That goes for pretty much any of my tech, actually. I’m cool like that. No mouse or trackpad, it’s all touch screen for you, which should be easier once you figure it out. There are headphones to your left if you want them.

“Now, onto the fun stuff. I was gonna have Jarvis load some textbooks and shit in Braille for you, but that’s boring and slow, so I set up a basic adaptive program instead. When it starts seeming a little too difficult, that’s good. Means it’s figuring you out. You’ve got a private server, so everything is yours and yours alone.”

Loki glances up at that, because he knows plenty about Stark to be completely aware that if he wants to badly enough, the man can hack pretty much anything.  “Until you get curious.”

“Wow, paranoid much? As long as I don’t think you’re doing something that will hurt yourself or others, yadda yadda… Essentially, unless you give me damn good reason to go poking around, I won’t. Alright?”

That’s not particularly convincing, but he’ll just be careful.

“Alright, Donder, have at it. I’m probably forgetting something… eh, well, if I did, chuck something at me. _Lightly._ Preferably not something fragile.”

A few moments later, there’s a clatter of the man pushing aside things on his own desk, and things fall into a general silence save for the remnants of what must be that obnoxious music Stark seems so fond of filtering through headphones in his direction. He decides to use the ones left for him, and has Jarvis queue a list of songs the AI thinks he’ll like.

Whether or not he’ll ever admit it to the mortal, being able to use Midgardian technology this easily is incredible. The screens are large enough that he rarely runs out of space, and everything just makes _sense._ He’s seen computers before, back during the battle, so he has a general idea of their normal organization, and that’s enough knowledge to quickly grasp the basics.

Stark seems convinced that if he learns some of Midgard’s concepts, he can—well, the mortal’s wording was a bit more haphazard, but in essence apprentice to him. Loki isn’t entirely sure how he feels about that idea, but if he’s going to be stuck on this realm, then he may as well take advantage of this sudden wealth of information.

And what a gryphon’s hoard it is—just skimming his fingers over the glass surface is nearly as good as sighted reading since it can keep up with his movements, and it’s not as restricted as the small set of books translated into Braille..

He may have just found Valhalla.

Whatever bizarre thing Stark set up in place of those ridiculously slow books he’d previously been relying on is actually quite interesting, although for a little while he gets sidetracked trying to figure out how it works instead of what the AI is trying to teach him. At one point Jarvis decides to speak up to reprimand him (which scares him half to death, having not expected the still-disconcerting voice) for purposely sabotaging his progress to toy with the program. In his defense, he was never told not to.

Some of it is just confusing, though. Less so because of the mechanics, but because he can’t comprehend how it would ever be useful or why it works the way it does. A few times he flicks the window over to another screen to do a bit of research online—something which has become incredibly interesting now that it’s not all being read to him at an agonizingly slow pace by a voice a thousand times more disconcerting than Jarvis'. The history is far more interesting than the actual material, anyway. Why does one need to know how to solve for the values of letters (which is an idiotic thing to require, especially since letters are _not the same thing as numbers, at all,_ and what is this Midgardian obsession with trying to equate them?) or probability? The latter is especially ridiculous, since mortals have simplified the concept to such a degree that it is pointless to even bother learning their methodology. He’s perfectly capable of both, and the letters-as-numbers is quite simple to solve for, but it all just feels unnecessary.

Now quantum mechanics, on the other hand…

There’s something about Lie Theory which sounds intriguing at first, but turns out to be something different than the name suggests. He forgoes the topic for now in favor of looking through an overview of computer science and how AI’s function on a basic level. That’s another confusing thought process at first, but an interesting challenge. Whereas magic is organic and abstract, requiring an incredible amount of control whilst still allowing it to flow naturally, such programming is all strict rules in fixed patterns.

An hour or so later, Stark comes up behind him, and with the headphones on doesn’t register in his peripheral. When there’s a tap on his shoulder, he nearly leaps from his own skin.

 _”By all the Einherjars, what in Valhalla do you need?”_ he snarls, pulling the cushioned headphones down so they lie around his neck.

“Woah, man, chill pill. I ordered Chinese—yes, I got it from the place with the weird organic shit—and you kind of missed dinner. Big time. When you get into something, you get _into_ something. It’s kind of adorable.”

He scowls. “What did you just call me?”

“Oh my god, your _face,_ this is priceless. Remind me to start calling you weird shit like that more often.” The man falls into laughter, and Loki rolls his eyes.

“What is the hour?”

It takes a moment before Stark is able to respond without choking on his words (was his expression really _that_ amusing?). “It’s almost two in the morning. Believe it or not, that all will still be there at whatever crazy time you wake up in the morning—I didn’t set it up only to smash it with a hammer tomorrow… although that could be fun. Don’t give me ideas.”

“I didn’t, you came up with that on your own, and waking up before nine is not even remotely crazy.”

“Weirdo.”

“I won’t deny that, but I think our reasoning is significantly different. Not to mention that you are far stranger than I.”

“Okay, _now_ you’re just confused.”

Loki cocks his head, considering the offer. “The Chinese—did you get those crunchy things?”

Stark lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Yes, I got the wonton strips.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki's chokehold: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rear_naked_choke


	18. Natures

The music he’s been listening to quiets so Jarvis can inform him that Stark is trying to sneak up on him. Knowing his approach in advance, he waits until he can just feel the man’s presence behind him, then spins on his stool (he’d insisted on something _not_ on wheels) and has the mortal pinned on the ground before he knows what’s happening. The yelp is rather amusing.

“I do not appreciate it when you do that,” Loki informs the man calmly, “and if you do so again, I’ll snap your neck. It’s not as painless as you’d think.”

“What, you’ve done it enough to know? Actually, no, don’t answer that; ignorance is bliss and all that jazz.”

He laughs. “You’d probably not like the answer, no.” The mortal struggles fruitlessly to get away, so after a moment he takes pity and releases him.

Stark brushes himself off with an irritated sound. “Asshole. I was just coming over to snoop on what you’re doing. Anything fun?”

With a lazy wave of his hand, he sends a visual recreation of his work into the air for the mortal.

There’s a scuff of rubber on concrete while Stark steps around to inspect his work in interest. “What the hell is all this, anyway? I don’t remember handing you an art project.”

“You didn’t, but your system of numbers is insufficient to represent the intricacies of this ‘quantum theory’ your kind seems so obsessed with.” Loki turns the tablet pen lazily back and forth in this hand.

“This is supposed to be quantum mechanics? Interesting choice of material.”

“It’s a derivative of Yggdrasil’s power—a sort of over-simplification of the forces that underlie magic.”

Stark laughs. “Only you would consider quantum physics simple. That shit even confuses _me.”_

“That’s because your kind is too narrow-minded; any mage with a strong enough grasp of both your numbers and our magic could easily comprehend the principles of this.”

“I’m digging all the doodles, Prancer, didn’t know you were the type.”

He can’t help but roll his eyes. “Those are not idle sketches, that’s the underlying principle which you moronic scientists are so intent are searching for. You’re all so concerned with letters and such nonsense that you miss the obvious truth.”

“And what’s that? If you’ve actually solved this, I’m dying to know.”

“What does it look like, serf? It’s branches.”

“…branches?” The mortal sounds unimpressed, but Loki feels the desk move slightly as he leans against it. Apparently he’s at least vaguely interested, if not convinced.

With a sigh, he sketches something out and has Jarvis project it as well.

“Nice doodles, for a blind man.”

“I swear to the Norns, at the rate you’re continuing, you’ll find this pen embedded in your eye.”

“Ew.”

“Then shut your mouth and just listen, or I’ll go back to working and you’ll never even have a hope to understand,” Loki remarks with an irritated scowl. “You keep focusing on the idea of particles versus waves, but in truth they’re not what you should be looking at.” Trying to figure out a way to explain, he sighs, and decides he’ll just have to improvise. “English is not a sufficient language to properly express the concepts, but I’ll attempt it. I’m afraid it will rely a bit on crude metaphor. There’s a reason that the other realms consider Yggdrasil to be a tree—what you call the ‘universe’ is fundamentally based upon branches of potential. Your science cannot pick up on them, because you can’t view them with a microscope or detect them with instruments of measurement. Those branches are intangible, yet weave the fabric that make up the basis of an ever-growing infinity.”

“Everything can be measured, if you know how to do it.”

*’*’*

Loki’s smile is the sort that parents give to very slow children who they’re forcing themselves to be patient with. It’s not a look he appreciates.

“It’s not so much _measuring,_ Stark, as it is _understanding._ They’re fundamentally different things that don’t always walk hand-in-hand. There are some things which simply cannot be measured, because they are in a constant state of motion yet nonexistence. Others are more static than you comprehend, and some exist in a state of timelessness. I’ve walked such places, and they would astound you.”

Damn god, acting like he knows everything. “You can’t walk somewhere where there isn’t time, idiot.”

He sighs as though the conversation is so below him that it’s physically painful to keep discussing. “And this is where your language breaks down—it is impossible to express a lack of time. Even if I were able to access the Allspeak, the concept doesn’t translate because your thoughts are tied so firmly to language that you are incapable of understanding.”

“Try me.”

“There _aren’t words!_  Those drawings and symbols? That is the closest I can come to put any of this into a human context. All of your searches for ‘god particles’ and a ‘unified theory’ and such are _impossible_ for you to succeed in, because you are trained from birth to be blind to it!”

“Funny, coming from a blind guy.”

Okay, wow, maybe not the best time for that. The god is approaching murderous rage, judging from the intensity of his (slightly misaimed) glare.

“What you call ‘quantum theory’ is so much more than you can comprehend. I’m not spending days trying to figure it out, I’m trying to come up with a way to simplify it such that it will give your kind at least a glimpse into understanding! Would you like to see what a written representation would be?” Without waiting for an answer Loki turns back to his desk with a vehemence that he’s never seen before, in a god or otherwise.

*’*’*

At some point, Stark wanders away. That’s fine, because this is going to take hours to complete—it would be hard enough _with_ his sight, considering that it’s time-based and three dimensional. Even with what he’s managed it’s still ridiculously oversimplified, but it will serve his purposes.

*’*’*

When Loki finally calls him back over (seriously, how much did he have to write?), he’s resting his chin on his hand and watching him with a disconcertingly calm gaze. In a couple gestures, his work shimmers to life in the air.

 _”Holy mother of god,_ what the everliving _fuck_ is that?”

The god’s expression doesn’t change. _”That,”_ he explains with poorly-veiled impatience, “Is a poor recreation of what you seek. Now do you see why it’s a bit difficult to express it in English?”

“Rudolph, I don’t even know what I’m looking at here.”

“Exactly.”

Whatever it is doesn’t make any sense—it only makes his head hurt.

“And this,” Loki continues, “is why we are so fundamentally different.”

Tony just settles for watching the discomforting thing that the god’s drawn. It’s probably less confusing when the guy can actually see what he’s doing, but still.

“The only way for you to ever comprehend that is to learn magecraft and speak with someone who uses the Allspeak.”

Oh, hey, that catches his attention. “I can learn magic and shit?” He’s never liked magic, because it’s always been a nuisance, but the idea that humans could actually do it is intriguing. Plus he’s dying to know how magic and science relate, because they obviously do. Just because Loki says it can’t be done doesn’t mean that there really isn’t a way to express this shit with numbers. _Everything_ can be expressed with numbers if it exists.

“Theoretically, yes.” Why does he sound so exasperated? It’s a valid question! “However, I do not know of any mages suited to deal with the… _intricacies_ of training a mortal.”

“So, us puny humans are _capable,_ but nobody can actually teach us. Dumb.”

Loki raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me, but, had I have my magic, I am completely capable of training a mortal. I simply don’t take apprentices.”

He can’t help but laugh. “That is so stereotypically _you_ that it’s funny.”

“Apprentices are nuisances who are dangers to society and to themselves. I almost feel sorry for my mentor, but he was rude and unpersonable.”

“Right. Because that’s not calling the kettle black or anything.”

“The only reason he took me is because I was a prince and could have made his life miserable. Not that I didn’t anyway, but nonetheless. There’s a reason why magecraft has never been common in human society, because your bodies are too weak to handle mishaps. If your concentration breaks, even for a moment, it could very easily introduce you to the most painful death imaginable.”

“And that, dear Comet,” Tony helpfully informs him, “is why you should always wear your seatbelt when burning down cities.”

“I hope you realize that were you to attempt to light a match, you could just as easily burn yourself from the inside out. Magic is dangerous.”

“What, you’ve set yourself on fire before? I suppose that would explain a few things. Like the crazy.”

With a roll of  his eyes and a sigh, Loki turns around and pulls up the back of his shirt to reveal a scar starting at his waist that runs up his spine and branches out across his shoulder blades like a tree. He glances over his shoulder, slightly amused.

“Damn, that’s pretty impressive,” Tony remarks. “What happened, tried to set Thor’s hair on fire?”

For a moment he remembers the whole family/not-family shit and worries that it might not have been the best question, but the god laughs and turns back around, expression just the tiniest bit guilty. “Not that time.”

“Wait, you actually _did_ that?”

“It was a good laugh. And why is your first assumption always that I set something on fire?”

“Ah, microwave?”

“Are you really still sore over that? I did apologize. Possibly not sincerely, but I did apologize.” He tosses the tablet pen onto the desk and leans back against it. “I hadn’t gotten that far into my studies yet, anyway. I was a bit overeager as a child, and decided that whilst the idiots three were out bashing each other in the head, I wanted to figure out what all the dusty old books were talking about. There’s a reason why most people start out under another mage’s guidance—not knowing what you’re up against doesn’t often end merrily. The mishap sent me to the healing ward for a week or so, but were you or another mortal to make such a mistake, you’d be dust before anyone even noticed. Yggdrasil does not like to be tampered with.”

“I’m trying to picture you as a hyper little kid. It’s not working.”

Loki smirks. “That day taught me a good deal about patience. The scar still burns a bit if I use certain forms or amounts of magic, which only serves to reinforce the lesson. I’ve always been one to learn the hard way.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” he replies sarcastically.

“Oh, shut your mouth and let me get back to my work. You’re just becoming progressively irritating. For you, that’s saying something.”

*’*’*

Regardless of the god’s general disdain for ‘Midgardian overly-complicated simplification,’ he’s pretty damn clever at figuring shit out. There tend to be weird symbols thrown in, but it’s a start.

As it so happens, he’s also pretty good at working with metal—which Tony learns a few days later is because he knows how to forge his own blades—and with a little bit (lot) of coaxing, he agrees to help with some assorted projects and take over development of the Braille phone.

That’s a hell of a thing to watch.

Loki can get just as ridiculously focused as he himself can, but god forbid he gets frustrated with something. That’s always terrifying. Seeing his process is pretty cool, too, because like he’d noticed before, it’s definitely not how most people work. He’s totally happy making up his own angles to approach things from, and to be honest, Tony’s not inclined to tell him how humans generally look at things because this is intriguing. He should have found an Asgardian helper sooner, because they actually make a pretty good team. For the most part, when one of them gets stuck, the other can either figure it out or set them down the right path.

Everything seems like it’s finally looking up.

 *

After a long night in the workshop, Tony decides that Star Wars sounds like a great idea. It’s been a while since he’s seen it, and his brain is tired, so why the hell not? Everyone loves lightsabers. By now he can pretty much quote the entire movie, and it’s probably a good thing he’s alone when he kicks back and turns it on, because it’s late and he’s damn well going to sing along to the Imperial March if he wants to.

Jarvis turns down the lights, and a familiar starfield comes to life on the wall. He sinks down into the cushions of an old, slightly tattered sofa that he’s had for who knows how long—it kind of just got moved with his equipment when he brought stuff into the tower. That was probably Pepper, since she seems determined not to let him destroy any more nice furniture when he’s got engine grease on his hands, but despite the fact that it’s a little over-used, it’s plenty comfortable after standing on concrete for a few hours.

Loki wanders into the workshop around the point that Luke’s fighting with Yoda over methodology, wearing a charcoal hoodie and black sweats.

"You didn't tell me you were watching Star Wars."

He raises an eyebrow. "Didn't know you'd want to watch, and didn't know where you were. Where were you, anyway?"

The god's raven hair is unusually unkempt, just thrown up into a sloppy ponytail, in what is usually more his bedhead look (which is the funniest thing ever, because on the rare occasions that he actually gets up early to witness it, Loki is _so_ not a morning person). He drops down beside him on the couch, taking a sip from his water bottle.

"Training room."

Huh? "How did you know we have a training room? Why the hell were you even hanging out in the training room?"

"It's funny, how many things one can learn from an ever-present computer. And what do you think I was doing, eating cupcakes?" He wipes a drip of water off his lip with his thumb and watches him (well, in the weird blind-gaze-in-his-direction sort of way) with amusement.

"Ha ha, very funny."

Loki rolls his eyes. "I spent eight weeks in hiding with barely any food, was bedridden for days, and have done little more than sit around reading for the past couple months. I've become ridiculously out-of-shape. By the way, your equipment is pathetic—you may wish to invest in more durable training dummies."

Oh for fuck's sake. "Just how much carnage should I be expecting?"

He shrugs, and takes another sip of water. "As I said, I'm out of form, so the walls are still standing."

"That's not comforting."

The god lays his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. “Play. I want to make fun of my namesake.”

That makes him pause. “Namesake?”

“Luke Skywalker, who follows the trickster archetype,” he replies, holding out one hand, then does the same with the other like a scale, “Loki Skytreader, trickster god.” Said god smirks. “Do you see the resemblance? I suppose Anakin’s story may fall in line slightly more, but they’re both trickster Skywalkers who are masters of magic, etc. If you care to start dissecting the characters’ lives and the plot, they follow my own.”

Tony thinks on that a minute, running through the movies in his head. “Huh.”

“The gods are never truly forgotten, Stark, even if your kind does not realize it.”

After a bit of irritated prompting, he backs up the movie to the beginning of the scene and restarts it.

*

Okay, he’ll admit it—he’s a little concerned for the state of the gym. When the movie finishes and Loki heads off to get a shower or whatever he does, Tony decides to go check it out. If it looks like a bomb’s gone off in there, that’ll take a bit more explanation than  ‘I had an accident in the workshop’ like he used for the whole broken jaw incident. He might be able to say he was testing an autonomous suit and things went haywire? It’d be a stretch, but so are most things he does.

It’s with a bit of hesitation that he swipes his card for the door, because god knows what he’ll find, but whatever he’s expecting isn’t it. If anything, the room is cleaner than he last saw it. Sure, there are a few mutilated and beheaded dummies, like the god had implied, but that’s really it.

“Jarvis, he wasn’t lying, was he?”

The AI confirms that he had, in fact, been in here training, and had not caused undue harm to anyone or anything. Which is weird. Well, curiosity killed the Stark, so when he’s in his room later (the god seems to prefer the same floor, but Tony prefers his bed, so he’s refurnished another room for him) he has Jarvis pull up the video feed from earlier that day.

A projection lights up the wall across from his bed, where he reclines with a few blankets because he’s too lazy to turn down the comforter.

_Holy. Fuck._

There are a few minutes of standard warm-up and shit, he beats the crap out of the dummies, but then within a few minutes he moves out to the center of the room where there’s plenty of space and mats laid out, and just…

Loki makes Natasha’s practice routines look like a kindergartener's.

Even blind, the sheer amount of precision and control is incredible (terrifying), and it’s starting to make sense how he did the weird tree-flip-thing in the park and keeps knocking Tony down and out without a second thought. Also the fact that he’d at least made it a few minutes when he was fighting the monster things before Tony had to cover his ass so he could get out of there without too many cuts and bruises.

Three thousand years of training in a culture where fighting is prized above all else.

Right.

Loki is a living, breathing weapon. Kicks, punches, rolls, flips, spins—it’s practically a (really deadly) dance. The sudden apprehension that someone like _that_ is close enough nearby to watch movies and eat chinese food with makes his blood run cold in fear for a few moments, because _shit._

The footage is ridiculously long, so he has Jarvis fast-forward to get a general overview of how the god trains, because it’s actually kind of fascinating. Again, it’s completely different from a human approach, and that once again reminds him that Loki isn’t just a guy he met in the park. He’s alien, in more ways than he can count.

Slightly disturbingly, the god never stops for a break or to grab a drink of water, just keeps going for hours. Literally. His actions and shit change, but he just keeps training. And training. And training.

The trickster holds an intensity that he doesn’t see often in people, but it’s more the sheer amount of energy and power that amazes him. It’s as though the time away from practicing didn’t make him fall back, just shoved him forward. Toward the last hour it does slowly start to fade _(finally)_ , but he just keeps going until he’s breathing hard and his limbs are trembling. Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, he seems to steel himself, and then he goes back to work.

Seventeen minutes later, Loki falls to his knees in exhaustion and sits there, shaking and gasping for air.

He tries to drag himself back to his feet, but that plan fails quite miserably so he curls up on the floor instead until he regains enough energy to move.

Well damn.

Is everyone on Asgard this hardcore? He doesn’t remember Thor working out this much, but then again the two of them are like night and day. Tony’s not entirely sure which is which though.

Just when he’s starting to think Loki decided to take a nap, the god stumbles to his feet and wanders off to find water.

The gym seems fine. Loki, on the other hand…

*

Over the following week, the god seems to spend more and more time in the training rooms, and shows up more often in sweatpants than he’s ever seen previously. On the occasions that Tony pulls up the video, they all end the same.

Sunday evening he decides to check in on the trickster in person, and heads down to see how he’s doing. It turns out that he’s so intent on his practice that he doesn’t even notice his presence, so Tony stands in the doorway watching. Seeing it this close up is even scarier than it was on tape.

When the god has worked himself to the ground again, he decides to make his presence known.

“Damn, Loki, you always work this hard when you come down here, or is this you trying to impress me?”

He jerks up to attention, turning quickly to face Tony.

“H-how long ‘ve you been there?”

“Long enough to realize I shouldn’t get in your way when you’re pissed, although I sort of already knew that. Is there a reason you like to wear yourself out so much?”

Loki looks toward him for a few moments, stands on shaky legs, and walks away without responding.

*

There’s no mention of it for another day, so Tony confronts him on it Tuesday evening when they’re both hanging out on the couch. He’s reading a pretty interesting dissertation on fluid dynamics, and Loki is sitting on the armrest changing out a string that had broken earlier in the day with practiced movements that he’ll have to ask about later.

“So, Rudolph,” he starts, only to get interrupted.

“You’re using the tone of voice you always do when you’re planning to reprimand me on something or another.”

“When have I ever reprimanded you?”

Loki scowls.

“Anyway, _not_ reprimanding you, just asking, but what’s the whole thing in the gym about? I know it’s not the only time; Jarvis tells me things.”

“I don’t see why it matters.”

He crosses his arms, after setting the tablet he’s been using aside. “I’m giving you a look right now.”

“Can’t see it, so it doesn’t count.”

“Stop stalling and answer the question.”

With a sigh, the trickster gently rests his violin back in its case. “Stark, you seem to forget all too easily—I’m not like you. I’m not mortal, I’m not even just a god, I’m an agent of chaos. My role in Yggdrasil is to bring change, and without it, stir crazy isn’t a strong enough word to describe it, because it’s part of me in a way that you can’t understand without first understanding the cycle of Ragnarök.  I don’t tend to outwardly express such things, but the longer I’m trapped here, the more energy builds up inside me, until I can hardly breathe under the force of it. Exercising my mind is well and good—and something I enjoy doing—but this is a cage for me. As well-kept and comfortable as your tower may be, it’s still a cage. Everything is static, constant, and whilst I fear going out where I could be found, being trapped here is driving me mad.

“So yes, I’m overworking myself, but it’s because it’s the best I can do to ease the building pressure. I’ve never been able to explain it properly, but the longer I remain well-behaved and _normal,_ the more the energy grows until I’m an anxious, panicked wreck whose sole desire is to take down a city block’s worth of calm or more, depending upon how long I hold it back. I used to travel out into the woods if it got bad enough back on Asgard, but in the heart of the city there’s nowhere safe to let go. I’ve been here nearing a year, without any release. There’s a reason why I’ve been getting more reckless lately, and it’s not really boredom—it’s the slow build toward mania.”

He looks down, resting an elbow on his leg and his forehead on his hand.

“The incident with the microwave? That’s something I’m naturally inclined to do. I– you know how it feels when you’re just really need to _move,_ but have to sit through a lecture or the like?”

Tony nods, as some of the pieces he’s been missing in the puzzle that is Loki are slowly hinted at. “You just described me at meetings perfectly.”

“Has it ever built to a point that it practically claws at your chest, and you get jumpy?”

That takes a second to think back on, but yeah, a couple times. He tells the god as much.

“Now imagine that,” he responds, “increasing exponentially as time wears on, for months, except you’re still stuck in the same meeting. That’s what it’s like.”

There’s something like an edge of desperation in the god’s voice, as though he’s tried to explain this time and again without anyone understanding, and things fit together just a tiny bit—why Loki’s been so paranoid about everything, why he’s always fidgeting just slightly and can’t sit still, why the withdrawals were so violent, and why what seems mostly like depression is turning toward dormant suicidal tendencies. Add to that the still-lurking aftereffects of the drug dependencies that can only worsen that, and you have one _very_ unstable god.

He gets the ridiculous amount of exercise more now, too, because what’s the instinct he gets when that fidgety, anxious feeling creeps on himself, and gets bad enough?

To run, to fight, and to scream at the world. 


	19. Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter today, because I got distracted doing research on fighting styles and it devolved into a study of video game glitches and some programming—I honestly don't know how that progression of thoughts worked, but it's almost six in the morning and I should probably sleep. Whoops. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

_”Holy shit–!”_

Loki laughs, sidestepping the mortal’s next attack.

“What _was_ that, even?”

“Getting beaten by a blind man, Stark; I’m disappointed.” It’s not even that difficult, all things considered, because his attacks are so predictable. “Stop projecting your movements and _fight_ me!”

There’s a quiet metallic clang alerting him to the man’s next step, so he uses the moment while he’s pulling back for the swing to pounce. They both go down, rolling sideways across the floor until Loki braces himself with his hands and kicks the mortal up and over his shoulder to finish by following through the momentum and ending up back on his knees. Catching the boot aimed at his head is an easy matter.

“Really? My face? That’s quite poor manners.” A twist of his wrist and Stark goes down hard.

This time he doesn’t get up right away, so Loki stands and stretches.

“You’re quite boring to fight. The Widow seems a bit more worthwhile an opponent, but I’ve never actually sparred with her. It would certainly be interesting. She’s still too weak to do any real damage, but I’d assume she could get in a few hits since I can’t see and might be resourceful enough to find another way of bringing me to the ground.”

“I hate you…” Stark mumbles, finally climbing to his feet.

“The feeling is mutual.”

It’s the mortal who’d asked to practice together for a little while today, in a request for pointers, so it’s not really his own fault that the man has lost so poorly (for the seventh time, because he’s nothing if not stubborn). At least he’s figured out that in a space as quiet and enclosed as the training room, thrusters practically scream ‘Here I am,’ and the whine of recharging his repulsors do the same to a more temporary degree. That means that things quickly devolve into basic hand-to-hand combat, which is a nice challenge for Loki, but still ends poorly for Stark.

“Now,” he says, throwing a water bottle in the man’s general direction, hoping he either catches it or likes cleaning up a mess, because it wasn’t exactly a light toss and the bottles are thin, “may I return to training or do you prefer me to throw you around like a two-century-old’s rag doll a little more?”

“I’m concerned for anyone two hundred years old who still has a doll.”

“You are insufferable.”

“I thought that you were going to, you know, give me pointers or something. Not beat me to a pulp.”

Lying down on a wooden bench near the wall, he smirks. “I’ve always been one to advocate learning from experience. You’d like a lesson in not getting embarrassed even whilst wearing that foil contraption? Don’t fight me.”

“Did you just call my suit foil?”

“It’s practically as thin. My _sincerest_ apologies for any dents or broken pieces, I was trying to be gentle.”

The scowl in Stark’s voice is practically audible. “Well guess who’s going to be hammering them out later?”

“You.”

“You’re the one who made them!”

He laughs. “If a man were to step onto the tracks in a subway station, would he be able to reasonably say it was the train’s fault?”

“Since when are you a train?”

“I’m not,” the god replies with a roll of his eyes, “but you knew full well what I’m capable of.”

To be fair, he really had been trying to go easy on the mortal, but the blindness means that it’s harder to judge where he’s aiming and he compensates by adding speed and power to his attacks.  Stark is by no means a poor fighter, especially by Midgardian standards, but he just hasn’t had the same extent of training that Loki himself has.

After a pause, the other speaks up again.

“So, if this is you going easy on me while you’re blind, did you just totally say fuck it during the battle, or what?”

Loki glances over toward him. “Do you remember what you said to me, when we met here so long ago?”

“Ah… go away, please and thank you?”

Apparently not, then. _Mortals._

“You told me I’d managed to piss off every last one of the Avengers, and that there was no version where I came out on top. Do you honestly think me so dull as to not have been aware of that?”

“So, what, you threw it on purpose?”

He scoffs. “Oh, no, of course not—I just didn’t really care. In honesty, I would have been fine at that point whether Midgard fell or not, I just wanted to ensure that He didn’t obtain the Tesseract.”

“Why’s that?”

“You truly are an idiot,” Loki says with a long-suffering sigh. “The Tesseract is useless as a weapon, it’s barely more than a plaything. It’s a doorway, though, and one that could have led Him to somewhere, and more importantly some _thing_ that I’d really rather it not.”

“Thanks for worrying about Earth, by the way.”

“Oh, for the Valkyries’ sakes. If He’d obtained the Infinity Gauntlet—and he still could—you would have greatly wished I’d conquered your realm. I wouldn’t have gotten the throne anyway, He’d not have actually given it to me, but I knew that. Since the only end with him was death, my plan was to lead the fleet to Midgard, gather a few to aid me—my thanks for that, by the way—move the Tesseract from his reach, and then run for my life. I succeeded in three of the four, which I suppose is a decent achievement.”

“Wait, so you mean you really did throw the fight on purpose?”

“Of course I did, you idiot.” He’s run out of water and it’s hard to drink lying down anyway, so Loki gets up and finds his way to the locker in the corner that someone (he’s assuming Stark) has stuffed with snacks. The mortal keeps complaining about his food disappearing, but it really shouldn’t surprise him so much. “Did you honestly believe that a couple children who’ve only been fighting for a decade or so at most could so simply take down a god? If I’d wanted to conquer your planet I would have been far more subtle about it, and you’d have been able to do nothing. Giving you warning and then opening a rather small portal right over your heads seems a little ridiculous, does it not? The only one I had to actually fight was the Odinson.” He shudders at the name, pushing back memories. That stupid, blind, witless _cruel_ not-brother–

No. His thoughts are better used on important matters.

“I will admit, however, that the suit you called was a bit of a surprise.”

“Wait, you threw me out a window thinking I’d actually die?”

Loki shrugs. It’s not like he’d had any ties to this realm at that point, nor the people on it. He was battling, they attacked, he retaliated. It’s simple.

“You do not want to be near me when I actually fight, believe me.”

“Why’s that? Magic and shit?"

He lays back down on the bench with his snack. “No, at least not entirely; more because everything you’ve seen of me? The control and composure? I need none of that. That’s really your problem, anyway.”

“What is?”

“You think too much,” the god replies. “Thought is well and good, and at times can be useful, but to truly become dangerous you must let go of it and trust your instincts.”

“The hell do you think I’m doing?”

Mortals. Thinking they know everything.

“I don’t mean like that; I mean giving in to them completely. Willingly forfeiting control, and becoming a creature of rage with a thirst for blood. If you wish to fight in the most lethal and terrifying way, you have to give up your humanity. When you stand among the fallen and let it come filtering back, you should fear your own actions. You wish to have a lesson in true fighting? Sparring is good practice, but the ultimate secret is to abandon yourself and become no more than a feral creature. That is why you should run, if I ever truly let go—because Loki as you know me stops existing.”

A slight whine and a couple metallic clicks let him know that Stark’s actually bothered to remove his helmet.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He turns his head in the direction of the noise, for a few minutes just considering the utter improbability of this happening. Ignoring everything that happened before he wound up here in the tower half-dead, even the change from that is absurd. Had he enjoyed the mortal’s company on occasion? He won’t deny it, because finally finding someone who can keep up with him is a miracle, but it’s not something he actively sought out until he was in hiding. Now it’s just normal, a constant that he’s comfortable with. Perhaps the main difference between Stark and the other people he’s known in the past is that even when he doesn’t understand something—be it an academic matter, a theoretical concept, or just something about himself—he’s willing to try. Most people are too impatient, but the mortal… he isn’t sure quite what the word is, but he cares. Just in general, he cares about understanding and learning about anything he can get his hands on. It’s not curiosity, although he has that in spades, but his interest in Yggdrasil (or the universe, as he’s so convinced She should be called) is on par with his own. It’s kind of funny, really, considering the man’s reputation as a selfish, shallow billionaire. The first and last are true, but to call Stark shallow is an obvious falsity.

Possibly the issue is that his interest is like a switch—either he doesn’t care at all, or cares to the extent that he’ll not let go of something, spending an eternity coming to know and understand even the tiniest pieces of it.

Loki’s not entirely sure what that means about the man’s interest in himself, but being treated as an equal is nice.

_…he really wants to reach out, grip Yggdrasil’s might once more, and let the city cower in fear at her power._

The god’s eyes linger in the mortal’s direction for a few minutes, then he stands and goes to gather his things.

*’*’*

Now that Loki’s explained things to him and he knows what to look for, it’s not hard to spot the excess energy that fills the trickster to the brim. He’s wound tighter than a spring, but with how much control he’s wrapped himself in it’s not something that stands out if you don’t know about it. It’s easy to mistake for irritating habits or a normal amount of restlessness.

Tony’s really starting to wonder just how much stress he’s under, though, because the look in his eyes is getting just a tiny bit scarier.

Rubber scuffs against concrete as the god paces the length of the living room next to the glass wall, and were it not for the slowly-growing understanding, he’d yell at him and tell him to quit freaking him out. When he glances up at him, Loki’s teeth are gritted and he looks pretty irritable. Not even going to try, then.

The restlessness seems to have been coming and going—never completely gone, but definitely better at times than others. Right now is on the less happier end of things. 

“Hey, Lo–”

 _”Shut up,”_ the god snaps before he can even finish his name.

Okay, not happy end of things at all. He does as he’s told. Apparently it’s too late, because after about thirty seconds of tense silence broken up by Loki’s footsteps, the god decides to go off on a rant.

It’s a long one, so convoluted he can’t keep track of what’s going on, and all he knows is that there’s lots of swearing in Asgardian and a minute or two of him shouting at Jarvis about his bathwater not staying hot enough.

Sometime in the middle of complaints about how absolutely awful the English language is for expressing ‘mature’ concepts (and Tony would make a joke about that, but he can’t get a word in edgewise even if he _did_ have a deathwish), the elevator door slides open. He jumps a little, but Loki goes into full battle mode, sinking into a defensive stance,  and _where the hell does he keep all these knives?_

Tony doesn’t bother getting up, because he’s comfortable lying on the sofa thank you very much, and just waves. “Hey, Pep. Didn’t know you were coming by.”

She looks slightly alarmed by the fact that the god is pissed and, well, literally snarling at her.

“I thought you said he was under control.”

 Glancing back at Loki, he sighs. “He is.”

“That’s not very convincing.”

“Eh, whatever. Nice to see you; it’s been boring without you around. Death threats are fun and all, but I’ve missed having someone who doesn’t burn everything when they try to cook.”

“I see you haven’t changed since the last time you wandered outside.” With a composure that only Pepper could manage, she sits in the chair across from him and laughs. He can tell that she’s on edge, but she hides it well.

“Surprised you turned up—after all this time I was starting to think you’d decided to stay completely out of shit.” 

She shakes her head. “Tony, with you, that’s impossible.”

Did she get a haircut? Or a new shirt or whatever? There’s something different, and he can’t quite place it.

“I’m not sure whether to be flattered or offended by that. Loki, stop foaming at the mouth already; you’ll know if she wants to hurt you because she’ll take me out first. Either go chill somewhere else or get your ass down here and act like you don’t have rabies for a few minutes.” Tony sits up and moves to the left side of the suede sofa, patting the cream colored cushion beside him.

Pepper looks on while he waits for the god to make up his mind. He already knows which choice he’ll make, it’s just a matter of time before he– Ha. Tony knew it.

With a good deal of wariness and a persisting defensive manner, Loki makes his way to the couch and sits beside him, knees pulled up. Normally he’d harass the trickster for putting his shoes on the nice white cushions, but it’s not like they’re dirty since he hasn’t gone outside, and the signs he’s learned to read all indicate that the trickster is perched in the way he is so he can escape quickly if necessary.

Or fight.

Fighting’s probably more likely, knowing the state the god’s in right now.

“Right, so you’ve never seen Loki before, right? I mean besides the time you walked in on us in bed together, which was a little awkward.”

The god’s eyes snap over in his direction.

“Oh, yeah… you were kind of out cold for that one. Christmas morning, she showed up and got a surprise. That surprise being you.”

“Yes, that was a fantastic Christmas gift, Tony,” she remarks, voice dripping with sarcasm.

He looks at her guiltily for a moment. It really does make him feel bad, knowing that he ruined the holidays for her in favor of sitting in bed with a super-villain. Kind of an asshole move, however unplanned.

“Sorry about that. Let’s start over. Good? Good. Pepper, this is Loki,” he informs her, patting the god’s arm regardless of the fact that it’s pretty obvious who he’s talking about—the gesture’s more for him than it is for her. A subtle attempt to reassure Loki that there’s no danger. “God of asshattery and setting shit on fire. Loki, meet Pepper, my awesome CEO and… whatever she is. Girlfriend-y thing.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“What? I’m bad with words, you know that, and I’m not exactly sure what to call our thing.” Tony looks over at the trickster, to add as an aside, “Essentially, she and I have a thing. Beyond that, I suck at words.” He turns back to Pepper. “I promise he’ll grow on you, he’s just a stubborn ass.”

Loki shoots him a look.

“What? It’s true! Stop sulking and act like a grown adult. Anyway, Pep, how are things going since we got dinner last week?”

“Predictable—there are grumpy clients with pointless complaints, three different offices that want me to see them at the same time tomorrow morning, and Happy is a little too enthusiastic about his security position.”

“Oh god, is he still doing the badge thing?”

“Yep. Although I’ve gotta admit that he’s got good instincts. However ridiculous he may act at the time, he can usually tell when someone’s fishy.”

“Well, I guess that’s good. He goes a little overboard but his heart’s in the right place. Specifically, in his chest, and not torn out by some crazy villain guy.”

The trickster makes a face that he can’t quite interpret, but decides to ignore for now. The number of weird looks he gets is so huge a number that he’s stopped trying to figure out what the hell they mean. Loki’s still antsy as hell, and produces the Rubik’s cube again (apparently it’s become his go-to solution for discomfort and boredom). Tony steals it for a moment, earning a noise of irritation from the god, and with a wink to Pepper flips one of the pieces so it’s unsolvable. After scrambling it, he hands it back, smirking.

She rolls her eyes, but watches them with a curious gaze for a few moments. “I’m slightly surprised that the two of you haven’t torn each other’s throats out yet. Not saying that I want you to, but the fact that you haven’t is impressive.”

“I have this thing about never doing what’s expected. Can’t have people thinking I’m normal,” Tony replies with a cocky shrug.

Turning her attention to the god, she smiles politely. “How are you, Loki?”

Well, then. Looks like it was her turn to exceed expectations.

He seems confused by the sudden shift in conversation, but sits up a bit and pulls together a bit more composure. Not that he’d been without before; it was just more obvious that he had been on edge.

“I fair adequately.”

That’s as much as she gets out of him, but it’s a start, and at least he was cordial.

The trio end up watching a movie, and Pepper finds an air popper somewhere to makes actual, fantastic popcorn. Tony, of course, ends up in the middle of the couch holding said popcorn (which he is just fine with), with Pepper on his left and Loki on his right. As time wears on, the god slowly relaxes and even ends up sharing a little of the popcorn when he thinks nobody’s looking. It’s kind of hard for him to tell when they’re not, though, given the blindness, and Tony ends up sneaking him handfuls when Pepper’s engrossed in the plot. The trickster gives what could almost be mistaken for a tiny smile of gratitude.

Around halfway through the movie Pepper rests her head on his shoulder, and he smiles. Sitting here, with some mostly dumb movie playing and the two of them beside him, is the most content he’s been in a while. It’s almost a slice of normalcy.

Loki curls up with his head on the armrest and eyes closed, listening to the plot. Part of his mind comments on how weird this all still is, but the rest of him drowns it out with _holy shit did you actually find someone you (relatively, with a few broken bones and drug problems) get along with?_

That makes five people he can reasonably stand—Pepper of course, Rhodey, Happy, Bruce, and Loki. He guesses Harley too, to an extent, but the kid’s kind of a ways away and they don’t really keep in touch. Plus he’s like ten years old, so he doesn’t know if that completely counts.

Holy mother of god, he actually has, like, _friends._ As in multiple. As in enough people to go and, well, what do people do with friends? Do that, whatever ‘that’ is.

Granted, Loki kind of throws a wrench in things considering the whole won’t-leave-the-tower-and-is-a-wanted-criminal issue, but still. It’s the thought that counts, right? Plus he’s got a lab buddy and a workshop buddy who can both talk smart-people language.

One of them has relatively frequent urges to kill him slowly and painfully, but still. Right now Loki’s sort of dozing on the couch, and isn’t trying to torture him, so that part doesn’t count.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to check out a couple things I use in my headcanon to develop Loki's fighting style, these are the two I've specifically been watching a bit of recently:  
> Krav Maga — http://youtu.be/IjmBPFPTq-g  
> Capoeira (slightly canonical) — http://youtu.be/2q3Z7UQZnBY


	20. Return

The next morning Tony finds Loki outside on the balcony, leaning on the glass railing overlooking the city. His hair’s gotten long—ridiculously so, falling at his shoulderblades. He almost always wears it in a ponytail now. Eyes closed and head tilted up to meet the sunlight, he’s singing quietly to himself. It’s probably the most peaceful he’s seen the god in months.

_Og tíminn líður þá breytist svo margt  
_ _sem aldrei neinn hafði fyrir séð…_

The railing bows just slightly when he rests his weight against it, and Loki pauses for a moment to turn his head in his direction.

“Good morning.”

“Morning, asshole.”

The god raises an eyebrow with an amused smile. “Speaking to yourself is a sign of insanity, you know.”

Tony scowls. “You’re mean.”

“What did I just say?”

He hits Loki’s shoulder lightly. “Cut it out.”

They stand side by side, gazing out into the distance. It’s just on the more bearable side of cold, this high up in March, the sort that nips at your ears and nose but despite that fact is somewhat pleasant.

“I am surprised to see you up so early.”

Without meaning to he yawns, and the god laughs.

“Thinking about taking the new suit out for a test flight. I’d ask if you wanted to see, but I have this nagging feeling that might be difficult for you.”

“Oh, do stop talking; it’s unbecoming of you. Where is your, ah, what did you call her? ‘Girlfriend-y thing’?”

He huffs and crosses his arms. “It was late, okay? Besides, introducing your girlfriend to your psycho alien supervillain housemate isn’t something that most people have to worry about doing.”

“Which is exactly why I don’t invite my girlfriend over, so I don’t have to introduce her to y–”

“Wait,” Tony interrupts, _”You_ have a girlfriend?”

He laughs. “Wife.”

When he just stands there dumbfounded, Loki tilts his head. “Ex-wife, actually.”

“No, no, no, back up, because I thought I just heard you say that you got _married.”_

The god responds with a shrug. “Political marriages are not uncommon in the other realms. Asgard was as war with Vanaheim, and the Allfather offered my hand to Sigyn to bring about peace. She was a kind girl, and we grew to be friends, but we were never in love. When enough time had passed to do so safely we divorced, that she could be with her actual lover and I was no longer tied down in such a fashion.”

A moment passes, and then Tony breaks down into laughter.

 _”You,”_ he snickers, “got _married.”_

With a long-suffering eye-roll, Loki shoves him lightly. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god, now all I can think of is you in a penguin suit vowing to love her for _ever_ and _ever,_ ‘til Loki does us part,” Tony says, still laughing, making his voice as girly as possible.

“You do realize that we don’t have Christian weddings, do you not? Considering the distinct lack of Christianity? There aren’t any suits, either. Think ceremonial armor, handfasting, and swords. No vows to love, either, not in a marriage like that, just protection and providing for her.”

“Sounds like more fun than our shit, then, if there are swords. Do you get to stab people?”

“I believe that is generally frowned upon at a wedding.”

“Lame. And Pepper’s making breakfast, since that’s what you were originally asking about. We’re going to have, like, an actual meal instead of leftover pizza.”

The god perks up at that. “What sort of breakfast?”

“The kind that’s warm. Beyond that, no idea.”

“I suppose that is too rare to pass up. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

*’*’*

Stark’s footsteps recede, and Loki looks out over the city. The cold breeze that tries to sneak through his coat is offset by the occasional rays of sunlight that peek through the clouds, and he wishes he could see it.

It’s funny, really—after almost a year on Midgard without sight, it’s not being able to navigate that he misses most; it’s the little things. The thousand shades of green that make up each blade of grass, how a person’s eyes light up when they’re genuinely happy, the dust that gathers in corners just out of reach… those are the things he yearns to see.

Perhaps the mortal, too. The only time they’ve met face-to-face wasn’t under fantastic circumstances, and so his memory is hazy at best. Stark’s words made an impression, but appearances weren’t a focus at that time. It’s odd, living with someone for so long and not completely knowing what they look like. His picture of the mortal is comprised of fingers running through his hair to calm him in the worst moments of those accursed withdrawals, a hand on his back helping him to break out of flashbacks, a playful smack on the arm when he says something particularly snarky… come to think of it, despite all the times Loki has either threatened violence or actually acted on it, Stark has never even tried to strike him outside of the training rooms, nor has he ever made any serious threats.

That’s–…

That’s not happened before. At least, not with anyone he’s known in a long time. He’s been awful to the man, yet the most he’s done in return is snap at him and storm off.

Why?

It’s not that Loki feels particularly remorseful about his action, because it’s in his nature and Stark knew that when he offered to let him live here, but it’s still an odd concept. Everything since the man practically dragged him kicking and screaming back to life has been alien to him.

Someone calls his name from inside, pulling the god from his wandering thoughts. The mortal’s lover is there, which makes him wary as he doesn’t know her, but if Stark trusts her then he’ll trust his judgement. This time, at least.

With her here it’s hard to say if things will get moved around, so he brings his cane for safety’s sake—Stark has learned to keep constant the layout of rooms he frequents as well as where things are stored in cabinets, drawers, and countertops, so normally it’s not an issue. The man is actually pretty considerate about such things.

“Good morrow,” he greets the pair politely when he arrives in the doorway.

The area smells of cooked eggs and meats, vegetables, some sugar somewhere… it makes his mouth water. Stark wasn’t exaggerating when he’d mentioned having pizza for breakfast—it’s a common habit of theirs now.

This ‘Pepper’ woman may still be a wildcard, but she gets points for cooking.

A slightly hollow tap of fingers against a metal chair indicate which is free at the breakfast bar, so he sits and gives the mortal a slight nod of thanks. Saving face around someone he doesn’t know is a blessing. Apparently the seat on Stark’s other side is now taken by his lover, judging from the laughter as the mortal presumably does something while she’s sitting down.

“Hey, Donder, guess what?”

“Hmm?”

Ceramic scrapes across the stone bar top, and suddenly the smell of food gets a lot stronger.

“We’re eating like gods this morning, buddy, it’s all sunshine and roses from here on out!”

Loki lets out a short laugh. “Believe me, that’s not a thing I would aspire to. Feasts are an embarrassment to anyone with even the slightest concern for manners—I’m not sure why they even bothered inventing utensils, considering that I don’t know a man there who’s well-versed in using them. That is one thing I most certainly do not miss.” He takes a bit of the food and turns to his left, looking down past Stark. “My compliments to the chef.”

She replies with an awkwardness well-hidden but still noticeable to one such as himself. He briefly wonders what it’s like to be in such a position as she is. “It’s really nothing, I just threw on eggs and potatoes. Pretty standard breakfast food.”

“Considering the breakfasts we normally have, it is a large step forward. I’m always happy to find food in the refrigerator for once.”

“Excuse me!” Stark butts in. “It’s not my fault you stuff your face all day! Pepper, he can eat way too much, I’ve been running studies to figure out how he fits it all into his stomach but the math doesn’t add up. Wanna start sitting around on the couch more instead of working everything off again in the gym? It would save me from having to sell the tower and the arc reactor plans to keep the electricity on…”

“Perhaps if you were to purchase food that actually contained some sort of meager nutritional value, I would not have to eat so much of it.”

“Hey, potatoes are vegetables!”

The god rolls his eyes, and finishes the bite he’d taken before he speaks. “Chips do not count.”

“Um…”

Pepper laughs, causing Stark to make an indignant noise in return. “It’s a lot better than his cooking,” she says, “trust me.”

“Hey–!”

“Oh, believe me, I know. He thought to get ambitious one night and tried to make pizza from scratch. I’ve never smelled so much smoke in my life, which is saying something.”

Stark hits his arm. “You’re not supposed to team up with her, asshole!”

“Tony, not again…”

“What? It’s been ages since I tried to cook!”

“And it should be at least as many more before you do so again, Stark, because that was a tragic waste of good flour.”

“You’re both awful people, and I hate you.”

He tries to stifle a snort, but fails and breaks down into laughter. Pepper soon follows.

The man stews for a minute or so before he gives up trying to be mad.

“Someone’s in a good mood this morning. Didn’t think you’d be so friendly after last night.”

Loki shrugs. “I’m feeling significantly better at the moment. You are incredibly lucky that I enjoy my current dwellings, because otherwise there was a high possibility of me finding a creative way to kill you.”

“Awesome. Good to know you care, Donder.”

He decides to ignore the sarcasm in favor of appreciating his meal. The idiot mortal can keep talking if he wishes, but it truly has been a while since they’ve had good food. Not that Loki doesn’t cook occasionally, but he’s been doing so less as time’s gone by simply because there’s never anything to make. Stark and Pepper end up in their own conversation, and he’s left to eat in relative peace.

When the three of them finish she takes his plate, which the man seems to think is unfair because whilst Loki may be blind, he is apparently ‘effort-challenged’ (Stark’s words, not his). Pepper admonishes him for being rude to a guest.

“Tell you what, Loki, since you have to put up with him most of the time—tell me what you like and I’ll see if I can make it for lunch.”

Well that’s… unexpected. She’s a lot more easygoing around him than he’d anticipated. Granted, Stark might have spoken with her last night, it’s hard to say.

“I’m incredibly sorry, but I’ll have to turn down the offer as there is an errand I need to run this afternoon. It is much appreciated, though.”

“Aww, really? I wanted to get to know the guy who’s managed to keep Tony out of the tabloids from doing anything stupid again.”

“No, Pep,” the mortal says, a weird tone to his voice, “let him go.”

*

There’s nobody in the reception area when he enters the office, so he shows himself in. Things are a little different from when he was last here—the trash can has changed walls, and something smells like cinnamon—but for the most part, it’s still familiar.

It’s a little while before anyone returns, so he perches on the desk and toys with a pen beside him.

Familiar footsteps eventually approach, then stop in the doorway.

“Serrure?”

How in the Norns does the man always know who he is? It’s uncanny.

“Matt.”

The man’s cane clacks lightly against the wall where he leans it next to Loki’s own, and there’s a rustle of fabric. Apparently he’s a bit shocked, because there’s a pause.

“Where the hell have you been? It’s been almost six months, you just disappeared!”

Loki smiles guiltily. “Apologies. That was unintended.”

“What happened?”

“I told you from the beginning,” he points out, “my life is not completely safe. I had reason to go into hiding, and so I did. Had I the time to warn you I would have, but it was rather a split-second need for action.”

“Should I ask?”

The pen clicks a bit louder than he expected.

“Not unless you care to know just how many skeletons I keep in my closet, as the saying goes.”

Matt seems to ponder that for a few moments, walking to his desk chair and sitting. Loki follows his movements even though neither of them can see—it’s just habit by now.

“Guess fair’s fair. You alright?”

Norns, what is it with people acting concerned about him lately? It’s not like he’s a particularly important part of their lives or anything; this entire business is just setting him on edge. The only time anyone behaves this way is when they expect something of him in the near future.

“More or less,” Loki replies warily.

“So where does this leave us? You planning to come back and work here, or just stopping in to let me know you’re alive? Job’s still open if you want it—you’re one of the best I’ve known, and I could use the help.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t return, at least not as I was. I’m sorry. Things are still unsafe for me, and my presence could bring down more ill on your heads than you realize. It’s best I stay out of sight.”

Old wooden desk drawers creak, and there’s a rustle of papers.

“Must be some skeletons, then.”

He nods.

“Thanks for stopping by, at least. I was worried”

There’s one thing that’s been constantly nagging at him for these six months, and he can’t help but ask.

“The case I was working on, the custody one… what was the outcome?”

“You’re really invested in that one, aren’t you?” Matt laughs. “Considering how much you did, I don’t see how she _couldn’t_ have won. He fought hard, but it was a smooth hearing and there weren’t any compromises. She got full custody, sans visiting rights or any even remote claim on the kid.”

Loki sighs in relief. “Good.”

“It was impressive work.” Matt’s looking through paperwork of some sort, it seems, judging from the occasional rustle.

“I–…” He’s not sure if he should offer, considering his unreliability, but decides to go ahead. “I can consult, to an extent. If you wish. I have a computer where I’m staying, and if you send me anything I can take a look. I’m afraid I cannot guarantee work as I did before. Things are chaotic, and not in the good way.”

“I think I can live with that. I’d love to have you back, even if it’s just on and off—like I said, you’re good.”

“Then I’ll stay in contact.” Try as he might, being out here is making him uncomfortable. “I have to go, though.”

“Yeah, of course. Good to see you, and like I said, thanks for stopping by. It’s good to know you haven’t ended up homeless with a drug problem or anything.”

Heh.

Well…

Loki won’t say anything about that.

Another familiar voice cuts in, this one Franklin’s. “Serrure! You’re alive!”

Oh, Norns…

*’*’*

Loki doesn’t get home until almost five that evening. Tony's curious, but if he tried to figure out where the god went, that would probably get him killed, or worse, shatter any trust the god’s started to find in him.

Pepper has ended up deciding to stick around, because apparently after a few months away she’s both missed the tower and become pretty damn interested as to what his new houseguest is like.

The god returns to find the pair of them in the living room with wine and the radio on. Tony offers him a glass, which he gratefully takes and sits beside him as he had the previous night.

“So,” Pepper starts, “Tony says you play violin?”

Loki blushes.

Loki actually fucking _blushes._

It’s all he can do to keep from laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have had the first scene in my head for a couple months, ever since I first found Árstíðir…  
> Seriously, it's an awesome song:  
> http://youtu.be/JyCGLyMiGY0


	21. Honesty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates might be every other day for the next few, I'm a bit busy and pretty sleep-deprived. I think I might have actually beaten the writer's block this time, though (famous last words). Sorry about that!

“What’s with you today?” Tony asks when Pepper leaves the room for a minute.

The god looks confused.

“Blitzen, this is the first time in months I’ve seen you actually start to relax a little, and since I dragged your sorry ass back here you’ve been too freaked out to even consider leaving the tower. You’ve hardly gone out on the balcony. Did you get your hands on more morphine or something?”

“Of course not!” Loki seems offended by the suggestion, but thankfully not in the guilty way. “I just had a rough night. It’s nothing.”

“Ooh, Loki, did you find a _girl?”_

“No!”

“Boy?”

“What? No! No people!”

Okay, he can’t help it. “…anima–”

He’s cut off by the most terrifyingly murderous look he’s seen in a week.

“I was not _bedding_ anyone, Stark, would you _please_ get your mind out of the gutter?”

“You’re no fun.”

“I’m not your nanny, I do not have even the slightest responsibility to keep you entertained.”

“Pepper…” Tony whines, “Loki’s not playing nice…”

“Nor am I playing at all.”

Pepper comes back in and sits across from them, picking up her tablet again. “Good.”

“Pepper!”

The god snickers, and Tony pouts. “You two were supposed to hate each other, not team up on me!”

“What can I say, Stark,” Loki comments, “you just seem to have this way of uniting people through a common annoyance.”

*’*’*

Not long later, the two mortals end up squabbling about something or another. He doesn’t know, nor does he particularly care, because he’s exhausted.

The past night, contrary to Stark’s apparent belief, hadn’t been fun. At all. Actually, it had marked the fact that he’s been on Midgard for almost exactly a year.

Back in January, when he’d felt it coming on, he’d begged Jarvis not to tell Stark about what happens to him. Regardless of how much the man’s seen, that’s one thing Loki isn’t going to let him.—not the way that his own mind destroys him like that—it’s too great a weakness, even now.

Three hundred and sixty-nine neat lines on his arms.

Twelve ragged scars on his leg.

Two years since he was dragged back to Asgard.

One since he escaped.

…three since he’d let go.

He shudders at the memory, trying to push it away again.

The only reason he’s been so calm today is that last night temporarily drained him of his energy. It will be back soon, no doubt, and with a vengeance—hence why he went to see Matt earlier. He honestly doesn’t know when (or if) he’ll be able to do that again. Right now, though, he’s dead tired, and the pair are still bickering. Is that all they ever do? Granted, it’s all he and Stark ever do, so most likely. He yawns.

A moment later, a blanket smacks him in the face.

“You falling asleep on me, Rudolph?”

Loki scowls, throwing it back at him. “Don’t hit me with things, you putrid wretch.”

“Then stop yawning, you’re making me yawn!”

Once again the blanket ends up on top of him,  so he decides to make the best of the circumstances and pulls it around his shoulders. It’s either that or use the thing to lynch the mortal with, and that seems like too much effort right now.

*’*’*

“I keep trying to get a read on him, but every time I think I’ve figured him out he just confuses me again.”

“Word of advice,” Tony says, “if you ever think you understand Loki, run for your life, because he’s planning something terrifying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Seriously, though, you _have_ to see him fight sometime. Like actually fight, not just growl at people. If Thor’s got half the talent that Rudolph here does, then he’s seriously holding back. Hell, I _know_ Loki’s still holding back. I’ve walked in on him training before and it’s terrifying. I mean that literally—if you ever see him in action, you’ll know what I’m getting at.”

Pepper watches them for a few moments, a hint of a smile playing at her lips.

“At first I thought you’d found a shiny new toy and just wanted to poke at it with a stick, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

He pauses halfway through straightening out Loki’s blanket. “What do you mean?”

“You care about him.”

“I guess, yeah.” Tony looks back down at the slumbering god. “It wasn’t exactly intentional, I mean, I kind of just kept running into him. Shit happened, and here we are.”

“I can’t figure out what it is you like about him. I mean, he doesn’t seem as bad as we all assumed, but it’s not like you exactly hit it off with Justin or Killian, and they’re both sort of rude, egotistical psychopaths. I don’t know what it is about Loki specifically that makes you like him while you hate the other two.”

He laughs. “That’s actually a pretty good way to describe the three of them.”

It’s something he’s been trying to figure out himself—why Loki doesn’t piss him off like the others do, at least not in the same way—but after a few months to think about it he’s got a general idea.

“There’s one big difference between him and pretty much everyone else. Well, besides the god part, and the ridiculous amounts of crazy, and the picky eating, and the weird hobbies, etcetera, etcetera… See, Loki? He’s fucked up. Big time. I’m talking more problems than even I know what to do with, and I’m pretty damn smart if I do say so myself.  He’s a total selfish ass, hates pretty much everyone, has a scary lack of morals, zero remorse, and is generally a pretty awful person.”

Pepper raises an eyebrow.

 _”But,”_ he explains, “he knows exactly how fucked-up he is. Hammer, Killian, Obie, the government, the Avengers… they all act like they’re big and perfect and can never be wrong.  But since he showed up on Earth, not once has Loki pretended to be anything other than a lying, cheating, manipulative bastard with a huge bucket of issues. He’s got no illusions as to how shitty he is, and he doesn’t bother trying to look otherwise.”

“That… makes a surprising amount of sense,” she admits. “In a really twisted way.”

Tony laughs again, and runs a hand through his hair. “Essentially, I like the god of lies because he tells the truth.”

It’s not that Loki _always_ does, or never hides anything—the guy’s got serious problems and will do almost anything to keep covered exactly what those are, as has been made abundantly clear by now—it’s just that he doesn’t hide _that_ he has them. At the risk of sounding a bit like Holden Caulfield, he’s sick and tired of phonies.

He hasn’t ever acted like he’s perfect, and neither has Loki. There are an irritatingly low number of people besides them that can do that.

“Only you, Tony, only you…” Pepper laughs, and watches the god. “He’s surprisingly calm, I wasn’t expecting that.”

“It’s been a good day. The best he’s had in a long time.”

“You’ve got that look on your face…”

With a sigh, he shifts in his seat. “He’s been getting worse. A lot worse, quickly, and I’m not sure he even realizes how much.”

At her confused look, he gives her a brief overview of what the god had told him. Loki really has been quickly growing more and more restless and irritable. It’s not hard for Tony to see just how much restraint the god is using to keep calm, and to be honest, it terrifies him. If he snaps, things are going to get really bad, really fast.

Right now, though? Loki is the most peaceful creature he’s ever seen.

The asgardian shifts in his sleep and ends up practically lying in his lap. Typical. Pepper laughs at the face he makes so he sticks his tongue out at her, but to be honest it doesn’t really bother him anymore. While he’s asleep Loki seems to be as clingy as he sometimes looks like he wants to when he’s awake, and as much as it’s not usually his thing, Tony’s surprisingly alright with it. Probably an aftereffect of sitting with the asshole for a week straight while he was having fun learning about chemical dependencies. Absentmindedly, he runs his fingers through the god’s ridiculously soft hair. Seriously, he’s been trying to figure out what carcinogenic mix of shit the guy uses when he showers, because it’s uncanny.

He and Pepper end up chatting pretty late into the night, in an attempt to catch up on what they’ve missed between visits outside the tower. Around midnight Loki wakes up halfway, but hardly even opens his eyes in favor of shifting closer with a content sigh and slipping back to sleep.

*

“Wha-?”

“I said, get off me, asshole, you’re heavy and I’ve gotta go!”  
  
Loki huffs and doesn’t move. “Don’ care…”

“Yeah, well, New York cares and so does Fury, so either let me up or have fun saying hi to the Avengers when they come to yell at me.”

Reluctantly, the god sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Thanks, buddy. I’ll be back when whichever assholes are trying to blow up the city this time are behind SHIELD containment glass.”

Ever since he’s started living with Loki, he’s been suiting up a lot faster—turns out having clear paths to things is actually kind of useful. Not that there have ever been ridiculously high piles of shit or anything, but it’s always been sort of organized chaos at best.  

The suit whirs and clicks into place around him, and the polished metal plates feel like part of himself by now. Briefly he wonders what it would be like for Loki or Thor, to wear armor someone else built, because he’d never be able to use something like that he didn’t make himself. Call it a quirk if you want. Or just trust issues. Or quirky trust issues.

Cyan displays flicker to life, scrolling through diagnostics and system startup data, and after a moment Jarvis lets him know he’s set.

 _Nothing like a troupe of Sturmgewehr-wielding burlesque dancers,_ he thinks to himself, _to end the evening on a pleasant note._

The entire thing is a nightmare, because it’s dark enough outside that half the team can’t see once the girls decide to take out the streetlights. It starts around three in the morning and lasts an hour and a half in which, for the most part, everyone tries to get civilians out of the way while not getting shot, and then stop the group from getting away with the isotope they’d been trying to steal from an armored delivery truck.

Tony limps back into the tower around five, trying to keep the weight off his left leg, because it hurts like hell. When he finally manages to get the suit off again, he finds out why that is. Judging from the nice trail of blood down his calf and the suspiciously bullet-shaped hole in his armor, he got shot.

Really?

Stupid brunette.

Thankfully the suit slowed it down enough that the bullet hasn’t seemed to hit anything serious, and it’s not awful, so he’ll take that as a plus.

All things considered, he’s survived worse.

A familiar head of jet black hair peeks around the corner, looking an interesting combination between concerned and amused.

“Jarvis said you were injured?”

Tony scowls. “Stripper shot me in the leg.” The god breaks down into laughter, and he makes a noise of protest before laughing too. “Shut up, it’s not funny!”

“It is, though, Stark,” he replies with a snicker.

“No it’s not, it hurts!”

Loki rolls his eyes. “Is the first aid kit still where it’s supposed to be?”

“What? Yeah, come on, you know I’m not  _that_ disorganized, considering how often I get slammed into shit. Don’t worry about it, I’ll call someone.”

“Nonsense,” he tells him, crouching down to dig out the box from under the workshop sink, “If you’re whining like you are then it’s obviously not that bad, so sit down and stop complaining. You probably deserve it, anyway—do I even want to know what sorts of ridiculous things you were spewing at the poor girl?”

“She had an _assault rifle!”_

“All the more reason not to harass her, you utter moron.” The god kneels in front of the chair and runs his hands through the contents of the kit to find what he’s looking for. “Where is the wound?”

Tony narrows his eyes. “Remember the whole thing with the lair? Are you sure you’re not still trying to collect limbs? Because I’m not sure how much I trust you with a bullet hole you can’t see unless you have some sort of freaky ulterior motive…”

“You caught me, Stark. I’m planning to amputate your leg using only an adhesive bandage and hang it on the wall beside the heads of my enemies.”

“I KNEW IT.”

Loki just shakes his head in exasperation.

“Fine, but if I end up with an odd number or extremities I’m sending Pepper after you. Left thigh, outside, about a third of the way up. This is  going to hurt, isn’t it?”

“Is the bullet still in the wound?”

“Think so.”

“Then probably.”

Well, that’s reassuring. Gotta love awesome bedside manner—granted, it’s probably still better than how he’d acted when the god was sick in bed. And he hates people babying him anyway.

Gentle fingers skim over his leg as Loki searches for the injury, and Tony winces in pain when he finds it.

“You’re wearing the undersuit?”

“Do I look like I want pyjama pants bunched up while I’m flying? Don’t think so.”

He rolls his eyes and sits back on his heels. “Then either change or don’t get mad when I take a pair of scissors to it.”

Good point.

When he sits back down, having found a pair of shorts, Loki resumes his work. Fingers brush over the wound again and Tony hisses, causing the god to glance up.

“Bite down,” Loki tells him, handing him a roll of gauze.

“What?”

He glances up, a knowing smile on his face. “Trust me.”

Slightly disconcerted, Tony does. When the god goes to retrieve the bullet he learns why.

Is that fucking _amusement_ on the asshole’s face whenever he moans in pain? He so hates him right now. So badly.

Loki closes his eyes, focused on his work. The process hurts like a bitch but thankfully doesn’t take long, so pretty soon the worst of the sharp, searing pain is over and the god sews the wound shut with neat, careful stitches.

“Better?”

Tony glares. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

“I won’t lie and say it wasn’t a bit funny how pathetic mortals are. I didn’t have to remove the bullet, technically, but I figured since it wouldn’t hurt things you’d probably appreciate it. You should be grateful the shot fell where it did, because if the aim had been much off it could have hit something rather vital. As things stand, you should be fine so long as you’re careful.”

“How do you know about bullet wounds? Just curious, since last time I knew you guys didn’t have guns on Ass-guard.”

He lets out a long-suffering sigh and throws an alcohol wipe packet at Tony’s face. Rude.

“Injuries, at their core, all operate under the same principals. I’ve been shot with enough arrows and magically-propelled projectiles to know the basics of treating such things.”

The cool of damp cloth only stings a little while the god cleans away the remaining blood with an ease and precision that can only come with years of repetition.

“Now, aren’t you glad you’re not a hero?”

Loki looks up, his gaze possibly the closest thing to an accurate one Tony’s seen since the god had shown up on Earth again, and speaks with a sincerity that shakes him a bit.

“You cannot imagine what I would give up to fight again, Stark. I would welcome injury as an old friend.”

He keeps forgetting just what it means that he’s pretty much trapped here. Loki’s not the man meant to sit quietly, chaos god or not, and the look of utter conviction in his eyes is painful. For a minute, Tony tries to imagine what it would be like if he were trapped on Asgard without his suit or any form of technology. It’s impossible, to even consider what that would entail, to be completely purposeless and so far from home.

It’s a scary thought.

Looking back down at the god replacing first aid equipment, things click a little more.

Tony Stark gets an idea.

“…you want to fight?”

Loki glances up, confusion clouding his storm-grey eyes. “Of course I do.”

“I might be able to do something about that. No promises, but I’ll see what I can manage.”

*’*’*

The mortal woman struggles, only letting him tighten his grip. They’ve been sparring for an hour or so while Stark is off Norns-only-know-where, at her request to learn a bit of basic self-defense. It’s as good a use of his free time as anything at the moment, and although it’s practically like training a child to walk, it’s still a bit entertaining. She has heart, to be sure. Next to no knowledge of combat, though, unfortunately, so he has to start her from the beginning.

Form is rather difficult to gauge when one can’t see their student.

The other issue is that he can hardly push her around because he’s so worried about harming her.

A few seconds more and she taps out, so he releases her and sits back. “You’re panicking. If you die you die; that’s all there is to it. Stop worrying so much and let your instincts take over.”

“But–”

“Again,” Loki cuts her off. “Try to lock me, any way you like. Don’t worry about holding it, just see if you can get ahold of me in the first place. Go.”

To her credit, the woman is as quiet as a field-mouse when she wishes to be, which helps her cause greatly. She tends to miscalculate on the attack, though, letting him lever her over his shoulder and wrestle her to the ground.

“Not quite.”

“What did I do wrong? It felt off, but I don’t know how.”

If there’s one thing in particular about her that he likes, it’s that she never makes excuses for her mistakes.

“You keep overshooting—stop acting like I’m three times my size, your strength will suffice once you learn how to use it. Control is far more important than power right now. Once you understand that, I’ll show you that even as you are, you can knock me out with the right approach.”

“Alright…” She sounds skeptical, but keeps trying.

He lets her do it, for the most part, because throwing her would be the simplest thing in the world, but when she does finally bring him to the mat unconscious, her voice changes significantly. Loki wakes after a second or two to a very surprised, concerned, and excited Pepper trying to understand the mechanics of the same choke he’d used on Stark so many months ago now. It truly is effective, when done right.

Will she be able to actually bring down him or another villain? No, not at all. But with a little practice she’ll be able to defend herself, which seems to have been Stark’s plan.

Speaking of the mortal, the imbecile practically waltzes in judging from the pattern and weight of his footsteps.

“Hey, Rudolph, I’ve got something you might be interested in playing with.”


	22. Push

Cold, smooth metal arches underneath his fingers when Stark guides them to what he's been lead to see. It's hard to tell just what he's being shown, which he assumes the man is still bad at understanding considering his apparent expectation, since he has no knowledge of darkness in this form. Loki runs his hands over the object, finding all the seams and joints where his fingernails catch or the rise of the icy surface.

"You said you wanted to fight, Dasher? Then come fight with me." There's a hint of smugness in his voice.

Loki looks over at him, eyebrow raised in derision. "You do recall the slight detail that I am blind and cannot see whatever contraption it is you are trying to show me?" He's met with a sigh.

"Oh for fuck's sake." Stark takes his hands again and rests them higher on what feels like a mask. "If you want to fight so badly, then next time I suit up, do the same and tag along."

Wait, does he mean–? A fabric garment is pressed into his hand.

"Go get changed. You're going to have so much fun; you have no fucking clue."

Still a little confused, Loki does as he says. The outfit is a bit of a nightmare to figure out sans-vision, because it's ridiculously tight-fitted and likes to get twisted, but eventually he manages. Upon returning, Stark whistles.

"Damn, do I always look that Tron when I wear that? Hell yes. That's awesome. Anyway, stand over here, no, over a little– there you go."

Machinery whirs and plates slot together around him, forming a far different form of armor than he's used to wearing. The helmet feels a bit claustrophobic, as he's not used to having his face covered, but otherwise the weight is a remarkable comfort. Midgardian clothes are just so  _light,_ and most of the time he feels like he's walking around half-naked. Suddenly he feels more himself, if only a little bit.

Jarvis' voice flickers to life and different pieces move as they calibrate themselves (it's a ridiculously bizarre feeling, to have one's armor shift of its own accord).

"Right, so, I had to tweak some stuff since you can't see—you'll have to let me know how it's working, because I was having a hard time guessing what to do. For the most part Jarvis should be able to help compensate for any missteps, and can give you aural cues instead of visual ones, so in theory nobody should be able to tell you're blind unless they're looking for it. Not important right now, though, because we have something more fun to do. C'mon!"

Loki follows the man out onto the balcony and up to the landing pad, apprehension settling in.

"Things should be pretty logical, and you know Jarvis is clever. He'll adapt the system if need be. Ready?"

"I don't–" He's cut off by a sharp push and a sudden rush of air around him as he freefalls. For half a second he panics, the drop a bit too reminiscent of other memories, but in practically the same instant his instincts kick in, and with a reflexive movement the repulsors do their work to keep him airborne.

The first thing he notices is that the suit sounds very different inside than it does from the outside. There's no roar or clank, just a hum of electricity and  _life,_  subtle vibrations that travel outwards from his chest like some sort of mechanical pulse, and there's something just this side of magical about it—quite literally, the movement of the energy is rather similar to that of magic. For a couple moments he just hangs in the air, breathless at the surge of adrenaline. It's nowhere near what he once had, but it's still a lot more than he has for the past year.

By the Norns, he's  _flying._

He laughs, a free and exhilarated thing, and shoots into the air.

A muffled whine of the other man's thrusters firing alerts him to the fact that Stark is close behind, but he doesn't really care and instead opts for taking off to find out just how fast the suit is. Further, and further, and faster, and faster, until all he knows is the salty tang of ocean air and the charge of power that is almost enough to make him weep for loss of what he'd once had. So long as he pushes that tragedy out of his mind, this is beyond incredible.

"Damn, Prancer," Stark's voice filters through his speakers, "take it you're enjoying things?"

Loki can't even respond, he's so caught up in the rush. Finally,  _finally_  he feels a little bit less like a dead man walking and more like a god.

Without warning he turns a sharp ninety degree angle and pushes the speed again, letting out a shout of joy when he breaks the sound barrier, and just keeps pushing it faster. Eyes closed, pouring every ounce of repulsor energy into his velocity, he finds a few moments of freedom. There's nothing but an impossibly thin layer of metal between him, the air, and the water—no obligations, just freedom; his heart pounds an excited drumbeat inside his chest.

"Holy shit, wait up–!"

Ehehe, nope. Not in the slightest. If the mortal wants to stay nearby, then he should try harder. Loki is going to strain the technology until it drops him a few thousand feet straight into the sea if he can.

Actually, forget that. The sea sounds fantastic.

He knows enough about the suits by now to be well aware they're airtight, so Loki cuts the power by a bit and drops into the water.

The impact is strong (unsurprising, considering the speed he's been traveling at), although he dives smoothly so it's minimized. Environmental factors shift with the change, the dynamics of water versus air affecting his suit's responses, but Jarvis compensates easily for most of it and he does himself for the rest. There's no real point to coming down here, he's just doing it because he can, but it does end up giving him an opportunity to test the system a bit more which is nice. He's forced to slow a bit to avoid any unfortunate incidents with marine life, so he uses the chance to get used to how Jarvis warns him about objects in close proximity and the movements of others.

It's–… it's peaceful. The rush is peaceful.

So long with  _nothingness_  has been driving him closer and closer to madness, but now? Speed, and power, and that  _incredible_  edge of fear? His mind quiets just the tiniest bit.

Quiet water, roiling with the strength inherent in such a thing, stretches out in every direction. To be honest, he has no idea where he is, but he couldn't care less.

*'*'*

…Wow.

If he'd known earlier how much of a difference this would make, Tony would have slapped together a suit for the god a lot sooner.

Seriously, the change in Loki's attitude is pretty much instant as soon as he finds himself in mid-air, going from the frustrated, on-edge time bomb to a fucking five-year-old kid with a new toy. Three thousand years old his ass—the god is ten at most.

It's also the most sincerely happy he's seen him since they met.

Around ten minutes later, the surface of the water breaks and Loki arcs back up into the sky in a streak of black and silver metal. His movements are still a little awkward—which makes sense, considering how short a time he's been in the suit—but to be honest, Tony doubts the god even notices. The laughter echoing in his ear is pure, unadulterated joy. He can't help but smile.

For the most part he just ends up tagging along, following Loki's path and watching as he gets more used to flying. He's a quick study, and his movements regain their natural grace by the second.

The sun is dipping its face below the horizon and casting a rainbow of colors into the clouds when the god finally slows to a more normal pace and Tony can reasonably fly alongside him. Neither of them speak, just slowly circle back toward Manhattan.

He lets Loki get out of his suit first, following behind him through the disassembly unit.

When the god glances back, he's wearing the biggest, most genuine grin he's ever seen.

Just, wow.

*'*'*

Loki's well aware of the fact that he probably looks like an idiot, but he honestly can't bring himself to care. He isn't just passable, he might actually feel actively  _positive._  It's been ridiculously long since that last happened, and Valkyries if it isn't incredible.

Life feels just slightly more worth living, his mind is a little calmer, and everything seems the tiniest bit alright.

It's not something he often does, but the god ducks into a respectful bow. "Thank you, Stark," he says with more sincerity than he'd intended, "truly."

"Yeah, 'course. We've got some practice to do, though, because the battle system in that thing is a bit of a mod and it'll take some getting used to. I'll show you tomorrow, if you want."

He nods, only half paying attention, and Stark must notice because he stops talking for a moment.

"…so I did okay?"

The night air has a bit of a bite to it, and it's pleasant. He feels alive. "Yeah. You did alright."

To be honest, it's a lot more than alright, and he's pretty sure that the man can see that. What Loki has a bit of a hard time digesting is the fact that Stark just handed him some of the most personal technology that he possesses, as though it's the most logical and normal thing in the world. The ridiculous amount of trust the mortal keeps showing him makes him uncomfortable. What will Stark do when that trust is broken? Loki Son of None is a liar at heart and the capability to live up to positive expectations is something he's never had.

This can only ever end in pain; surely the man sees that by now?

Then again, Loki is the one who will end  _everything,_  and it will be far from a pleasant death for the realms. Anyone who thinks he's a good person at heart is in for a  _very_  large surprise—he's not evil, perhaps, but he's far from good. Screams are just such beautiful music, and he'll never be able to stop loving them. He was born into war, he supposes, and it's simply in his nature. Woven into his monster blood. Causing pain will always serve to bring him pleasure, and Loki couldn't care less if it's twisted.

For the moment, though, the rush of adrenaline did a bit to ease his mood, so that won't happen today. There's plenty of time to watch the worlds burn later.

A sharp poke in the side pulls him out of his thoughts (and nearly earns the mortal a broken nose simply off reflex).

"So, Pepper left just after we did, is gonna be gone for the next week or so, and we've got the tower to ourselves. I'm thinking we should take advantage of the opportunity, order ridiculous amounts of awful takeout, and have an epic game night."

"Or we could go somewhere and actually eat decent food for once."

Stark perks up. "Like,  _go somewhere_  go somewhere?"

"I do believe that's what the words 'go somewhere' means, unless I've been incorrect for three millennia. There's supposed to be a place in Harlem that has quite spectacular Southern food. I think they have chess and checkerboards as well."

"Give me ten to shower and change, and I'm definitely in."

*

"You can't jump me with my own piece, asshole!"

"I'm not! This is mine!"

"No, I'm black!"

"Everything's black!"

"You can't use that as an excuse for doing whatever the hell you feel like!"

"Just watch me."

"I just said that isn't your piece–!"

"Excuse me, ma'am," Loki asks the waitress who's just walked up to their table (he can tell she's female by the quite distinct clicks of her heeled shoes), "is this piece red or black?"

"Red."

"You absolute cheating  _bastard!"_  He throws the checker he'd jumped at the insufferable mortal's face, then turns back to the woman with a smile. "My apologies, that was terrible manners. Good evening."

"Not a worry, glad to help. My name's Qiana, and I'll be your server today. Can I get ya'll something to drink?" The woman's voice is warm, kind, and she sounds to be in her middle years. Loki decides he likes her.

Stark chooses something off the wine menu so he does the same, and they order dinner at the same time since it's late.

"This is still odd," Loki muses, sliding a piece across the board. It scrapes against the cardboard slightly when the mortal nudges it more into its space. "On Asgard, there were no restaurants, at least not in the way you have them here. We had taverns, but that's really the extent of things. Unless you were travelling and stopping at an inn for the night, you ate what was provided at home or by friends. Things on Midgard are much less personal in many senses."

"What, so you mean, no pizza delivery? Lame."

He rolls his eyes. "No pizza delivery. Our meals were better, though. Here you act like fresh foods are a delicacy, but everything we ate was essentially straight from the fields. We don't have the same methods to preserve things as you do, so we couldn't eat, say, oranges in the middle of winter. Not that Asgard has oranges."

"You don't have  _oranges?"_

"Stark, our crops and animals are almost entirely different than yours are. Oranges are Midgardian in origin."

"But you guys have like horses and shit, don't you?"

"Of course we do." Loki runs his nail over the grooved edge of a spare checker. "Who do you think first brought the creatures to humankind?"

"Wait, horses are Asgardian?"

With a laugh, he replies. "Yes, mortal, the gods brought your kind horses. Apples too. Be glad that our flora and fauna are not identical, because Midgardians would not have made it this long if they were."

"Sure, mister fancy-pants. Don't give us any credit for our awesomeness."

"I'm giving you full credit; there's just not much there."

"You're mean!"

"I try," he says with an innocent smile, and is rewarded by a checker between the eyes. "Cut it out!"

"Nope."

"You're impossible."

"Yep!"

"I hate you."

"I'm hurt, Blitzen, I really am. You wound me. What do you guys even eat, then, if you don't have our shit?"

Loki shrugs. "At the core, the basics are the same. Our grains are different but we have bread similar to yours. We keep dairy animals, we grow crops… we do tend to eat more predators than your kind do, though—after all, the fun is in the chase, and we hunt our own meat. And many of our meals take longer to cook. It's hard to explain differences without you having some vague form of reference. We don't use as much sweetening, there's another thing—our equivalents to sugar and salt are expensive commodities, and while the palace can afford them, their use is not as widespread in recipes because of the fact."

The man thinks it over for a minute, and uses the time to take a turn. "King, eleven to sixteen. Guess that makes sense but it's still weird. Then again, I'm just a puny mortal; what do I know about the big bad universe?"

"You're learning, I see."

"What, about the game or my apparent insignificance—which is total bullshit, because I'm awesome."

"Definitely not the former," Loki replies, getting in a triple-jump thanks to the new layout of the man's pieces.

Stark laughs. "You sure about that? King me."

Dammit.

"Oh, come now, Stark. Do you honestly think I didn't see that waiting there? Your move wasn't as clever as you thought, it will do you minimal good."

As it turns out, that's not strictly true, and the obnoxious mortal wins the match.

"You cheated! I know for a fact that you are a no-good, cheating liar who is willing to take advantage of a blind man!"

"Ah, no, I think you're just a really sore loser."

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep track of so many pieces when you can't see them, or the spaces they sit on? I don't think so!"

"Oh shut up and get over it. I beat you. End of story."

*'*'*

It's possibly one of the most relaxing evenings they've spent together in months—Loki is in high spirits (the good kind, not the I'm-going-to-rip-your-face-off-and-feed-it-to-baby-kittens kind), the restaurant's kind of homey, there's good food, and neither of them have any looming worries. They're free to just laugh. The god looks the happiest he has in a long time, and in truth, Tony feels the same. He doesn't know what it is about Loki, but something about watching a genuine smile light up his face makes him feel inexplicably happy. It's rare—incredibly so—but maybe that's why it's so remarkable. Knowing that it's him that put that smile there is even better, and quite frankly, right now they're both probably the happiest they've been in a long time.

Ever since he'd first had the idea, Tony's known that giving the god access to even blueprints of the suit, let alone one of his own, should set off major warning bells. What it means that none have gone off he doesn't know and doesn't want to look too hard at. It just felt like what he should do, and at this point he doesn't have even the slightest hint of regret over the decision. Loki is actually  _happy._  That's so far past amazing that he doesn't know what to do with it.

A part of him is actually really sad now, too, seeing just how much of a difference there is between this and the god's normal attitude. The ever-present sorrow seems all the more obvious in comparison.

Loki glances up from his slice of cornbread, that ridiculous smile warming Tony's heart in a disconcerting way. It's weird to see him in sunglasses again—while they've been at the tower the god hasn't bothered wearing them, since he and Pepper are both used to seeing him without and aren't particularly squeamish about the scars (although they're not pretty, and Tony still hates them for what has been done to the god), but now that they're out in public again they've made a reappearance.

To be totally honest, he kind of loves the nights he and Loki spend together just hanging out like this. The god understands him in a way that most people don't (because they're a little too similar for comfort), but as long as Tony ignores the scary bits of that it means that they aren't constantly fighting to find the right words to explain things. In some ways, he thinks the two of them might have helped balanced each other out, even just a little. A little counter-crazy.

Plus, best of all, Loki takes zero shit and gives even less.

So no, he doesn't regret giving the god a suit. When Tony practically dragged him back to life, he'd already placed his trust in him, and despite the roller-coaster ride of ups and downs, Loki's never truly broken it. He's a better guy than he gives himself credit for. It kind of hurts, actually, the glimpses Tony catches every once in a while of what the asgardian thinks of himself, because for all the pomp and circumstance, he's insecure as hell.

Then again, so's Tony in some ways.

Fuck. Loki's practically his evil twin.

*'*'*

A week and a half later, Stark gets a call from the Director.

"Come on, slowpoke, Rogers is gonna be done with shit before we even get there!"

Loki scowls, waiting for the last few pieces to slide into place, then follows him up to the balcony. "Do you have a plan, or are we just going to show up and hope for the best?"

"I like hoping for the best; life's more fun that way."

Why in Yggdrasil does he always end up with people who don't bother thinking before bashing people's heads in? Well, that's not t _echnically_  true, he supposes, since Stark does tend to think things through (thank the Norns), but nonetheless.

This time Loki decides to take revenge and shoves the idiot mortal over the side before jumping into the air after him. "Where are we going, and what are we facing? Surely you know at least that much." He has to dodge a repulsor blast aimed his way in return for the push.

"Asshole. Some Hydra offshoot is causing mayhem in the Garment District, and Steve says there are civilians down. SHIELD is trying to evacuate the area but there are a lot of people trapped."

He nods. "Understood. Keep the Avengers out of my way." With a sharp burst of power to his repulsors, Loki shoots ahead into the fray before the man can respond, leading with a blast of energy in the direction Jarvis indicates an enemy stands. A solid thunk indicates he's hit and thrown the target.

Fantastic.

Who's next?

*'*'*

"Stark, you didn't say you were bringing company." The supersoldier ducks and spins, missing his target by a fraction of an inch and having to readjust. "Is that Rhodes?"

You wish, flag boy. "Nope, old friend of mine who wanted to tag along."

"Did SHIELD clear him for combat?"

"He can fight, don't worry."

"You sure about that?" Natasha cuts in from where she's fighting back-to-back with Thor a few blocks down.

Tony glances over toward where Loki is playing chicken with a guy on a hovercraft. "I think he can manage." Sure enough, the god doesn't so much as flinch and the Hydra agent veers a little too far, slamming head-first into a brick wall. That's gonna leave a mark.

Always wear helmets, kids.

"At least give me a name, Stark." Steve requests.

Loki spins and glances up, turning on his channel for a moment. "You may call me Lachlan if you so wish."

He starts to say something in return, but a Hydra agent shows up and the Avenger ends up with more pressing matters.

As the fight wears on, Tony does start to notice that the god is purposefully missing sometimes, or letting himself get hit. Switching his comms over to a private channel, he calls him out on it.

"Stark, let's think about the situation for a moment. The person in this fight who is the biggest threat to me is on your team, and he happens to be even more familiar with my battle style than you are with your suit. Yes, the blindness will affect how I fight to an extent, but if I otherwise do so as normal then he'll likely catch on. Shut up and let me keep doing my work, okay? And keep the Odinson," Loki practically spits the name, "as far away from me as possible. I'd hate for him to get caught in 'friendly' fire."

Loki sounds pretty damn serious about that last bit so Tony decides to help Thor out when the god takes to the air. It's probably a good idea to try and avoid team casualties.

*'*'*

"Stark, shut your mouth! It's hard enough to focus without you overriding the cu-" He's cut off when a blast slams into his chest, and stumbles backwards a few steps with the echo still ringing in his ears. If the training room had been a nightmare, then this is just downright hellish with all the ambient noise and constant yelling over the comms. With a gesture he shuts his off so that he can concentrate on where everything is. Teamwork is meaningless if he's completely disoriented.

Three high-pitched pings on his right and he ducks, rolling forward in a tight somersault and spinning back to aim a repulsor blast at the space he'd just been occupying. Judging from the cry, he hit his mark.

Jarvis does his best to filter what is and isn't relevant data. Stark is the only Avenger constantly in his soundscape, the others only entering as necessary, and villains currently engaged without trouble fade to the background. Once locked in battle with one enemy, everything else falls away unless it becomes immediately relevant, but all of the dilution means that he's never getting the big picture. His strategy only includes himself, because that's all he can keep track of whilst staying aware of his surroundings. The terrain is the hardest part—again, Jarvis is handling a lot of the work, but even so he keeps catching his foot on debris and getting off-balance mid-attack when the suit compensates for something he almost ran into by mistake. Staying in the air is easier, but he's gotten backed under an overhang defending civilians without an easy way out. Well, an easy way out that doesn't involve them all getting shot, and letting that happen probably wouldn't earn him any love from the Avengers.

This would all be a lot easier if he weren't relying on this damn noise! In battle he's always let sound fall away, focused on his breath and the rhythm of his movements, and kept everything else in his peripheral until it registered as a threat. There's so much chaos flooding over his senses that it's throwing his concentration.

A warning beeps to the right and he leaps onto a woman just in time to shove her away from a blast, rolling in such a manner that his weight doesn't crush her.

Alright, so maybe he's not completely incapacitated—if he were, he wouldn't be fighting, he's not an idiot—but it's no longer as natural as it should be. A thousand curses upon the Allfather and his kin. May the next glass of wine he brings to his lips turn to blood.

With a turn in momentum he levers himself up over the girl's head, jumping to his feet and tackling one of the wretched creatures. It feels fantastic. His punch may or may not permanently disfigure the man's face, but Stark had only told him to avoid killing when possible. Never mentioned maiming.

He probably won't make that mistake in the future, but Loki is more than happy to take advantage while he can.

The other four shoot at him, like that will do any damage, and he grins under the mask. He'd missed this—the adrenaline, the power, the fear in the eyes of his enemies when they realize that their death (or incredible pain, in this case) will come no matter what they do. He counters with a kick backed by a burst from one of his foot repulsors, which knocks the first man out and back into another, who is pinned uselessly under the dead weight. Three down, two to go. He cocks his head, facing the other two innocently.

"Stand down and you won't be harmed?"

There's a whine as one of them (the lefthand, according to Jarvis' cue) charges his energy weapon. Well, he did warn them… Before it gains enough power to shoot, Loki is on top of him. The gun, or blaster, or whatever stupid name the mortals have named it, makes quite an impressive explosion when he cracks the outer shell and sends it flying toward the last man. He's got no clue if he lives or dies, but it doesn't really matter so long as he's out of the fight. Turning back to the group (innocents, Stark would call them, but no man is truly innocent), he addresses them.

"At the top of the stairwell to your left should be a ladder to the roof. Go up, keep your heads down, and wait for a SHIELD helicopter to get you out of here. Believe me when I say that if you follow me out of this building, you will not like the fates that you meet." He waves. "Have a pleasant day!"

With that, Loki turns toward the entrance and naturally steps onto a fallen rod in such a way that it throws his balance. Before Jarvis can catch him, he tucks into a neat somersault and continues on as though the incident never happened in a futile attempt to save face, but it's yet another reminder of his helplessness and makes his cheeks flush red in shame and anger.

Outside, everything is mayhem again—apparently the mortals they stand against have acquired some sort of flying contraptions and are quite happily terrorizing those who have not yet fled the area. Loki quite happily leaps into the air and goes after them one at a time as Jarvis points them out.

In most cases, he's learned the style in which they were taught enough to predict their evasion tactics and counter them, but a few (mostly women, which doesn't surprise him since he's fought very few before now) are actually clever enough to think for themselves. When they do, he ends up rocketing past them. It's ridiculously irritating and slightly embarrassing, not that he'll show it. Well,  _would_  show it if his face was not masked. He leaves those for the others and focuses on the men who are more foolish. The clash of metal on kevlar is quite satisfying.

Glass shatters somewhere to his right, followed by a cry of pain. Jarvis marks the individual as an ally, so he heads in that direction, only to miss the window by a few degrees and fly head-first into a brick wall.

"Jarvis! Why in Valhalla didn't you correct that?" His ears are ringing from the impact and rage starts heating his chest.

"My apologies, sir, I attempted to do so but couldn't change your trajectory at enough of an angle in time."

Were it not for the fact that the sounds of battle still surround him, he'd show Jarvis just what he thought of the mistake. As it is, he's busy enough trying to sort out his hearing that it's not worth the extra effort.

"Lachlan, you alright?" Stark's voice filters through the sounds of battle. "Most people like to fly through windows, not headbutt walls and see if their pretty suit can smash through."

Loki tips a finger to activate his microphone. "I am  _fine,"_  he spits in reply. "Perhaps you should reprogram your computer to do a better job at flying."

"Sure, sure, blame the genius for everything. All things considered, you're not on autopilot right now, you're expected to do some work."

"Yes, well, that  _would_  be quite nice, wouldn't it? Unfortunately, my skills at aiming this metal heap are slightly lacking at present. Or have you forgotten?" He rights himself and makes it through the shattered window this time.

"Hey, you're the one who wanted to f-"

Their captain cuts him off. "Stark, if you and your guest could stop bickering for a few moments? I've got a few loose ends over here I need you to tie up."

"Got it. Be a good boy, Lassie, and try not to blow up too mu-"

He cuts off the mic, choosing to ignore the derogatory comment. The ally he'd come for is surrounded by three well-trained fighters, and while he's putting up a good fight, he's only managing to defend himself instead of get in any offensive hits. Loki hovers for a moment, figuring out who's where. Once he's pretty sure he won't kill the ally by mistake, he moves out of the shadows and speaks cheerily.

"Hello, boys, having fun? I'm sorry to inform you that playtime is now over, because the adults have grown-up matters to attend to."

With a scathing remark to Jarvis about keeping him in the right direction, he shoots toward the closest of the men, turns, carries him just outside the window, and lets go. Humans can survive falls from eight or nine hundred feet, right? If not, he can always claim ignorance of just how weak their bodies are.

The screams are quite hilariously effeminate.

The other man (not quite teammate, he's not one of the Avengers, but Jarvis still labels him as on their side) has taken down the other two, and is apparently tending to a wound. It's hard to tell himself, between the suit blocking his senses and the already overwhelming scent of blood in the air. He'll trust the computer for now.

"Thanks," the man manages, still a bit out of breath. The voice is familiar, but he can't quite place it. Stupid metal. Loki lands and walks toward the voice, stopping when a ping tells him he's a couple paces away.

"Of course. Can I be of aid?"

"Think I'm good. Who are you, Rhodey? Don't recognize the suit."

He shakes his head. "I am an acquaintance of Stark's."

"Gotcha. What do I call you?"

"Lachlan will suffice." There's a pause in which Jarvis informs him that the man nodded. "And yourself?"

There's a quiet laugh. "What, you didn't see the getup? Name's Daredevil."

"A pleasure. Do you requi-" He catches himself. There are more than a few rumors, ones that he believes could be true, that the Devil is Murdock. Loki is not so foolish as to be unaware to the fact that his natural formality is… uncommon. His coworker is a quite an intelligent man. He'll put two and two together if he's not careful. There's a half-second pause, which is a little too long for his liking but not so much as should be noticeable, while he draws up memories of Stark's speech patterns to use as a guide. "Do you need a lift anywhere? I'm headed back to the park, but I can drop you off somewhere first."

"Thanks, but I should be good. See you around?"

Loki nods, then leaps back out the window and kicks the thrusters into gear.

"I need some backup over on Seventh and Thirty-ninth!" Stark shouts over the open comms.

"On my way," he calls in return, reorienting himself and shooting toward the aforementioned location.

As he closes in, the soundscape goes mayhem and he falters for a moment—a crucial moment, because in the next the mortal screams in pain as an explosion rocks the area. Loki zeroes in on the location and goes for the attack, taking down Hydra agents like easy game. A rumble and crack only add urgency and power to his movements, and the 'no kill' rule is out the window. He stops being careful and just shoots at anything that moves.

There's an ominous groan of metal and concrete to his left and he abandons fighting entirely, aiming toward the fallen man, issuing a command to Jarvis, and taking off.

Glass shatters and rains down around them, beams and sections of wall cracking the sidewalk inches behind Loki's boots. He braces himself over Stark's form and arches his back to take the impact of the falling building.

*

After the final boom, the silence is deafening as the debris settles—his comms were knocked out so he's left without any contact to the team, but he's pretty sure they know that Stark is down.

Jarvis struggles back online a couple minutes later to assure him that the man is alive and stable, so the god turns his attention to finding a safe way out of the wreckage. There's really no  _good_  way to go about things. He opts for carefully shifting what he can and blasting away at the rest, trying to find a sliver or fresh air among the choking dust, with limited luck. They're not exactly on the edge, and Loki's not in fantastic shape. His wrist feels like it's broken, he's got a killer headache, and his legs are protesting the movement, which makes this a bit harder than it normally would be.

Not seeing a better way, he keeps going, and after what feels like nearly an hour (although it's probably closer to twenty minutes) a piece is lifted away from the outside and an overly-familiar voice greets him.

"Friend of Stark! Is he with you?"

Grateful for the alteration the suit makes to his voice, and with a little help of his own knowledge of Midgardian accents, he responds. "He's right over here, gimme a hand?"

"Of course. I am in your debt."

In his debt?  _In Loki's debt?_  The Odinson owes Loki nothing, because  _he_  is nothing. Just a slobbering, traitorous wretch with a heart darker than blindness. Darker perhaps, even, than the abyss itself.

No, nothing is owed, and nothing is wanted. Once the Odinson has retrieved their injured comrade, Loki flees the area and goes back to the tower to find something for his sudden and painful nausea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure what it says about me that food shows up so much in this fic. I'm not even hungry when I'm writing, it just happens.


	23. Requests

“How is he?” Loki asks quietly, stepping out of the shadows at the familiar footsteps.

“He’s got a concussion, some nasty cuts and bruises, and a couple minor burns, but he’ll be alright. What about you? From what I’ve heard, it would have been a lot worse if you hadn’t jumped in.”

The god shrugs. “He would have been fine. I’m not badly injured either; we got lucky with where we were when the building came down.” Question answered, he turns to leave, but Pepper stops him with a hand on his arm.

“He’s asleep, but you can go see him if you like. The Avengers are all meeting with Director Fury right now so you won’t end up with any unwelcome surprises.”

Loki hesitates but she assures him that she’ll make sure SHIELD doesn’t find out he’s here, so he nods his thanks and slips through the door. The room is eerily quiet, unlike the healing rooms of Asgard, and the only sound is the shrill beep of a monitor of some sort. Heart rate, from the sound of it. He’s only been here for a little while, but he hates the building with a burning passion—everything reeks of anesthesia, sickness, and death smothered in bleach—the healers themselves seem cold and mechanical. It’s like stepping into a plague ward. Is this what it means to be mortal? To be constantly surrounded by the dying? The thought makes him shudder in dread. He can’t spend the rest of his life on this realm, walking amongst living corpses; it’ll drive him even further mad than he already is.

There’s a stiff chair beside the bed, so he settles on it and leans his cane against the wall. If he listens, he can hear Starks’ breathing over the beep, and if he really focuses he can zero in on the man’s heartbeat itself under the noise. Loki pulls his feet up onto the chair and closes his eyes, blocking out the machinery. Slowly he reassures himself that the mortal is alive and well.

*

Some time later, when the beeping has apparently been stopped (thank the Norns), he’s woken by a hand in his hair and his name being called softly.

“…Loki?”

He grumbles tiredly, burying his nose further in his arms, and earns a laugh from the man.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

After a moment to yawn, he tilts his head to look up at the man from where he’d lain his head on the bed beside him and scowls. “I am _not_ a princess.”

“You sure? You’ve got the hair for it.”

Still blinking the sleep from his eyes, Loki sticks his tongue out at the idiot with all the air of a petulant child. “You’re just jealous.”

“Oh, you know it,” is the sarcastic response. “Gotta admit, I didn’t expect you to show up here. Should I be flattered, or concerned that you’re planning something?”

“If I told you, that wouldn’t be any fun.”

Stark smacks him in the head. “No causing problems in the hospital, that’s bad manners. Are you alright, though? I don’t really remember much of what happened firsthand, but from what I’ve seen on the news you kind of acted like an idiot.”

 _”Me,_ the idiot? What in Svartalfheim do you think _you_ were doing?”

“Ah, saving civilians?”

“They’re not worth _that_ much.”

“You’re really bad at this whole superhero idea, aren’t you?”

Loki levels him with a look. “Do I look like a hero to you?”

“Fair point, Tall-Dark-'n-Creepy. Then again, I think it’s probably a stretch to call any of the Avengers superheroes. Maybe Spangles, but he’s got the American flag so far up his ass it’s hard to tell.”

“You really don’t like him, do you?”

“Long story, complete with tales of shitty childhood and daddy issues. You didn’t answer the question. What’s with the brace?”

He sighs. “I’m fine. My wrist was shattered but I got the pieces back enough in place that it should heal on its own within the week if I’m careful. Other than that there’s nothing too bad—I’m not as fragile as you.”

“Hey!”

“Stark, it’s true. My tissue is at least four or five times denser than your own, and my healing process is significantly faster.”

“Yeah, well, you can still get addicted to morphine . Remember that?”

“That was not _addiction,_ that was _dependency._ There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, whatever. Just stay away from opiates in the future.”

“Am I _ever_ going to hear the end of that?”

“Loki,” the man suddenly becomes serious, “you tried to kill yourself with an overdose. I’m not going to just forget about it.”

His cheeks grow hot in shame, and he drops his head back into his arms.

Stark’s voice grows softer again when he speaks. “Look, I know it’s not something that you’re proud of, but running away from shit’s not going to make it any better. I’ll openly list this as something I never, _ever_ thought I’d say as of a year ago, but I worry about you, Loki.”

Wh-? Why would the mortal even care? He’s long since broken, and he’s well aware of that, so why does the man keep acting like somehow there’s something left that could possibly matter? The woman talks like that too, sometimes, although not as much. What do humans think they are?

“I’m fine, Stark.” Admittedly, he doesn’t do a fantastic job of keeping his voice nonchalant.

“Bullshit. You’re a fucking trainwreck, and it doesn’t take a genius to see that. Stop lying to yourself.”

The embers in his chest that never truly stop burning flare up again in anger as he raises his head to glare at the man. “How _dare_ you speak to me in such a fashion, mortal wretch?”

“Because,” the mortal says, sliding the sunglasses off his face for him and tossing them with a clatter onto the nightstand, “nobody else is going to, and you need a reality check.”

“I do n–” He’s cut off mid-protest.

“Yeah, you do. See, funny thing is, I don’t generally drag people home with me and play doctor to them for a week if I don’t care about the outcome, but you’re so determined to wallow in self-pity that you’re totally oblivious. Talk to me, Loki; I can’t help otherwise.”

“I don’t want to discuss this now, Stark.”

“No, and you’re not ever going to want to. Now cowboy up and do it anyway.”

“I…” To be honest, he doesn’t know what the man wants him to say. His instincts scream at him to run.

“You said suicide isn’t a word on Asgard. What’s it called?”

Loki looks down, a lifetime of resentment creeping into his expression. “Cowardice,” he says with a bitter laugh.

A hand squeezes his own reassuringly. “Loki, that’s not it at all. You’re not a coward.”

He doesn’t grace that lie with a response.

After a pause, the man speaks again. “You never told me why you wanted to. Would you?”

*’*’*

Something heartbreaking flickers across the god’s face for a fraction of a second, so short that he almost misses it, and he waits quietly. He wants to talk, Tony can tell, but doesn’t know how. That’s fine, because it’s not like he’s going anywhere right now since he’s stuck in this stupid hospital bed until everyone’s convinced he’s alright.

Loki lays his head back in his arms, which he gets. It’s usually easier to talk about shit when you don’t have to look at whoever you’re speaking to.

“Your hair is getting ridiculously long,” he notes to fill the silence, “you could probably play Rapunzel at this rate.”

The god is tense when he finally speaks. “I just–… I just want it all to end.”

“Want what to end?”

“The pain,” he admits quietly. “I want the pain to stop.”

Absentmindedly he works the asgardian’s hair out of the tie and combs his fingers through it. Loki relaxes a tiny bit.

“I don’t belong here, Stark; I don’t belong on Midgard. I get by, but I can never truly fit in. The same was true for the palace of Asgard. My entire life has been a three-millennia-long political manipulation, ever since Odin kidnapped me as a babe, and Thor made even that purpose obsolete in a day’s actions. I’m a ghost walking the waking world, no more.”

“Wait, you were _kidnapped?_ I thought Thor said you were adopted!”

Loki laughs darkly and his grip on the sheets tightens. “Yes, well, it would seem on Asgard the two words are synonymous if the ever-perfect _Allfather_ decides to do it.”

“Shit, man. I’d say sorry, but I’m pretty sure that’s not going to make you feel any better.”

“You would be correct, but I appreciate the sentiment.” He shifts a little in his chair to get more comfortable. “Look, Stark. I have no future, no purpose—only a few years of hiding ahead of me until I’m inevitably found and then either put to death or tortured for the rest of my many years. At least if I end it myself, I can stay in control for my last few moments. I’m suffocating as it is, with so much energy building up inside of me, and everything that made me _Loki_ —my magic, my title, my sight… that’s all gone. It’s not even that I want to die, I just want to stop half-existing.”

Tony’s not entirely sure what to say to that. “You belong in the tower, Loki, laughing at stupid jokes and throwing things at me when I’m being irritating. I’m not going to let you get dragged back to Asgard or to a SHIELD prison.”

The god rests his hand over the one still running through his jet black hair. “Stark, I could explain myself to you a thousand times, in a thousand languages, and you’d still not understand me. I have never, not once in my life, been good enough for anyone. Not strong enough, not loud enough, not bright enough, and in the end it turns out that no matter how hard I tried I never could be. I was _born_ inferior.” He looks up, trembling.

“You’re good enough for me, you know. And my standards aren’t exactly low.”

If Loki’s last laugh had been dark, then this one is a fucking black hole. “You wish to know the truth? The truth is that I’m not a god.”

“…Now you’ve lost me.”

“I’m not a god, Stark, I’m not even Æsir. Odin didn’t just take me from some noble’s home, or even a peasant's; he stole me from Jötunheim during the war.” Loki’s voice is shaking with anger and he could swear that for half a second the god’s eyes turn red. The madness that seems to have been receding over the past months is back with a terrifying vengeance. “I am a _monster,_ Stark, born and bred. My blood is cursed. I _deserve_ to die.”

Fuck if that’s not the most terrifying expression he’s ever seen.

“Loki, that’s the furthest thing from true. I’ve met monsters, and believe me when I say you’re not one of them.’

“You _don’t understand–!”_

_”Then try to explain!”_

The god looks lost in thought for a few moments, trying to find a way to do so. “Fine,” he says emotionlessly, “let me compare it like this. Nazi Germany, during the Captain’s time? Think of that as Asgard.”

“Fun picture.”

Loki glares and, okay, that might have been bad timing.

“Imagine you were Hitler’s son. Imagine you were raised your entire life hating the Jews, were trained to kill them and saw it as a noble cause, because they are abominations and filth. That was Thor and me. I remember one day as a child, when father told us of the war between Jötunheim and Asgard, Thor saying that when he was king, he’d “hunt the monsters down and slay them all” with the biggest grin on his face. It had always been in my plans to help him. Together, the two of us would rid the realms of that scourge.

“I was raised to hate the Jews. My bedtime stories were filled with monsters who would steal bad children and cook them for supper if they were feeling kind, or otherwise torture them for sport—I won’t get into the details, but the tales would be considered fairly gruesome for your children.

“Now imagine if you went to fight the Jews one day, alongside your brother and his friends, and in the middle of the battle discovered by mistake that you yourself were Jewish.”

Oh.

Fuck.

“Increase that to a godly scale, throw in the fact that the monstrosity is true instead of some political machination, and you have an incredibly vague sense of why I want to die. Among other things.”

“Damn, Loki…”

“I don’t want your _pity,”_ he spits.

“Well fuck you then, because if I want to sympathize then I’m damn well going to. I’m not doing it in the looking-down-on-you way though, alright? For once in your life, just let someone care without biting their head off.”

_”WHY?”_

“Because I’m trying to help you!”

“What if I can’t be helped? I’m a monster, Stark, and I deserve to die. Were you to run me through with a knife right now, you’d be doing me a favor. When I look in the mirror, all I see is the lie Odin created to hide the truth from me whilst telling me how horrible a creature I truly am.” His hazel eyes are red with tears and filled with wild desperation. “Why don’t you understand that?”

Tony tilts the god’s chin up, forcing his gaze toward him. He really wishes Loki could see right now, because it would feel a lot more effective that way. “Because it’s not true. You know how I know that? Because monsters don’t buy homeless kids crepes. Monsters don’t play violin in Central Park, or drive themselves crazy trying to keep from hurting people, or risk getting caught by crazy government organizations to see their friend in the hospital.”

“I–…”

“You’re not a monster. Whatever planet you’re from. You’re Loki, and god knows that involves a lot of crazy shit, but being a monster isn’t part of it.”

Loki stands and starts pacing like he tends to do when his emotions are running rampant, which Tony’s noticed are one thing he’s not very good at dealing with. Something tells him that this is just scratching the surface or the god’s issues, which scares him, because the tip of the iceberg isn’t very pretty.

“C’mere, Rudolph.”

He glances up and Tony pats the bed beside him. Reluctantly, the god sits, and Tony shifts (with a grimace as the movement pulls at the stitches in his leg) to rub his shoulders. The contact does its job in calming him a bit, although certainly not all the way.

“I don’t know what to do,” Loki admits.

“Then we’ll figure it out, okay? I’ll help. Hell, I bet Pepper will too if you ask her.”

“Why couldn’t I have been like Thor?”

“Because then you’d be boring and blonde. Trust me, you’re better this way.”

“Is that so?” He doesn’t sound convinced.

“Yeah. It is. You’re funny and talented and fucking brilliant, and if that’s not seen as the best combination on Asgard then they’re all idiots. Seriously, the rate you sped through learning math and science and shit? I’ve never seen anyone do that before. You’re incredible.”

Loki doesn’t really seem to know what to do with that. At all.

“Shit, has nobody ever told you that before?”

The god just looks away.

“Damn, Asgard sucks. I hate Asgard.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Well fuck all of them because you’re awesome. Will you promise me something?”

“Hmm?”

“Next time you start feeling really bad,” Tony says, wrapping his arms around the god from behind, “tell me. Don’t just hole up in your room like I know you tend to do. Believe it or not, I do care, and I hate knowing that most of the time you suffer alone. Been there, done that; it sucks.”

“You make no sense.”

“I try not to. One more thing.”

Loki glances back at him, eyes narrowed. “You have many requests today.”

“Yeah, well, shit needed to be said. Probably should have said it months ago, but hindsight’s twenty/twenty and all that jazz. Wait, have you seen Chicago?”

He shakes his head.

“Right, well, we’re so watching it later—it’s so your sort of thing. Lots of manipulation. Anyway, and I’m being one hundred percent serious here, if you ever get another urge to kill yourself, come talk to me. Even if you don’t think it will help, even if it’s just another passing thought, swear that you’ll let me know.”

“I…” The god hesitates, gazing down at his hands where they’re folded in his lap. “That’s not an easy thing to agree to.”

“I know, but I also know that I’ve caught you looking over the edge of the balcony just a little too thoughtfully before.”

He looks down again, cheeks flushing.

Tony rests his forehead on the god’s shoulder and sighs. “Please? You know I’ll never make fun of you for it, I get that it’s not something you can help.”

Reluctantly, the god nods. “Alright. Fine. I swear…”

“Thank you.”

“Mhmm.”

“And thanks for trusting me enough to talk about it. I know it’s not easy.”

“Yeah.” Loki leans back against him, relaxing a little. “Can we talk about something else now?”

“Like what?”

“Like how you should give me the cookie off that dinner tray.”

Tony smacks him on the arm. “You’re such an asshole, Rudolph. I’m the one in the hospital!”

“Yes, well,” he laughs, still a little strained but definitely more himself than before, “I broke my wrist for you, and I’m hungry. I’m also technically in the hospital. Cookie. Now.”

With a long-suffering sigh, he hands it over. Loki grins.

*

Pepper knocks the door three sharp times, then swings the door open with a squeak that casts the blue-white light from the hallway into the dark room. She finds Tony sitting with his tablet working on a project for the company, and Loki asleep on the bed beside him.

“You know, I think those are meant for one person.”

“Eh, we had a manly heart-to-heart. I wasn’t going to kick him out.”

She laughs and sits in the chair beside the bed, holding out a bouquet of flowers and speaking quietly so as not to wake the slumbering god. “From Happy.”

“Aww, I’m touched. Is he proposing, or what? I want a ring. Lots of diamonds.”

“Not as far as I’m aware. I think we need to talk, though.”

“Oh god, you’re using The Voice. What did I do?”

“Nothing. At least, nothing bad. You're always doing things.”

“Are you sure?” He’s not convinced. She doesn’t seem upset, but still… when someone says ‘we need to talk,’ it’s never that they’re trying to decide on which flavor ice cream to buy.

Pepper nods. “This is probably going to sound bad, but just trust me, okay?”

Oh god.

“You know I’ve been having a hard time with you being Iron Man, and with how reckless you get.”

“Wait, wait, are you about to break up with me?”

She sighs. “Just hear me out, okay?”

“You’re breaking up with me.”

“God, Tony, just listen!”

He shuts up, stomach dropping.

“Look, I love you. You know that. I’m just not sure we’re _in_ love. I’m not about to walk out or anything, because I do care about you and you’re my best friend, but—and I don’t think you’re really getting this at this point—I think you care about someone else more. I’m not entirely sure in what way, but there’s definitely something going on and I don’t want to get in the way if you could be happier with them.”

Huh? “What do you mean? You’re the only person I’ve ever been able to keep a steady relationship with.”

She looks pointedly at the god beside him.

“Loki?”

Pepper nods.

“He’s a dude. And we’re friends.”

“Oh for the love of– I’ve seen how you look at him, Tony. You sat with him for a week nursing him back to health, you’ve changed your whole lifestyle around him, and you even _built him a suit._ Don’t tell me there’s nothing there. Like I said, I don’t know _what’s_ there, but there’s something.”

He turns that over in his mind, trying to figure out if there’s any truth to it, and honestly doesn’t know. Does he care about the god? Sure. The guy’s got some serious issues, but he’s not a bad person, and deserves a hell of a lot better than he’s been dealing with in the past. That doesn’t mean he’s in love or anything, though.

“Just think it over, okay? I know you pretty well, enough to realize when something changes like this.”

“…are you sure?”

“Yes, Tony. I’m sure. Could it just be a really close friendship? Yeah, possibly, but if it’s more than that I don’t want you feeling guilty about it.”

He brushes a stray lock of raven hair out of the god’s face, thinking over her words, but can’t come to a conclusion. Loki has always confused him, and this is no different. Stupid Asgardian gods.

“Now I’m just confused.”

She laughs. “Why am I not surprised?”

“You’re awfully calm about all of this.”

“I’ve seen it coming, I think.”

“That’s a little disconcerting.”

“Sorry. I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure.”

“I’m not sure I’m gay, Pep.”

“I’m not saying you want to take him to bed, just that I think you like him. They’re not necessarily the same thing.”

“This is weird.”

Pepper laughs again, and it’s genuine. “That’s you in a nutshell.”

*’*’*

Loki wakes once more to fingers running through his hair, and sighs quietly. Why did the mortal have to bring that up? He’s been trying to ignore the urges, and while it hasn’t been completely successful, it’s still not something he likes to face. All it’s done is confuse him as to what to do next time, and if he really should go to the man. He’s made an oath now, though, so he has to. Loki isn’t entirely sure what made him promise to do so, and he vaguely regrets it, but at the same time… it would be nice to have the reassurance.

For now, he settles for turning over to look towards the man, feeling a bit calmer for the dreamless rest. He always sleeps better when the mortal is nearby, because the knowledge that an ally is present eases the constant edge that he’s developed after a few too many ambushes during hunts. It’s why he tends to fall asleep on the sofa at night.

Loki laughs quietly. “I think I preferred the bed in your room, although I was a bit uncomfortable at the time. This one is rather small.”

“Well, it’s kind of made for one person, not a human and a psycho Norse deity. Have a nice nap?”

He gives an affirming hum.

“Glad the invasion of personal space worked out for at least one of us. Hey, I need help with a wiring problem. You up for a little geek time?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I really do love Steve, and think he's a brilliant and smart character. Tony doesn't entirely share my opinion, though.


	24. Eldritch

Loki shows up the next three days—always at night, after visiting hours, he’ll sneak in and sit next to the bed to work on his laptop or chat. How he manages to keep convincing the nurses to let him in he doesn’t entirely know, although considering what he knows of the god, there’s probably a good bit of charming, flattery, and playing the pity card involved. The guy has no shame when it comes to taking advantage of his blindness.

One night he brings a brailled version of Life (he really doesn’t trust Tony not to cheat, which, well, come on—when you’re playing with a god as smart as he is, sometimes it’s the only way to win). Tony decides to skip college in the game because he’s smart enough he doesn’t need that, and proceeds to get the shittiest choice of jobs in the game. Loki somehow ends up with six kids, which apparently he finds hilarious despite the fact that two of them have to sit on top of the others because that many pegs don’t fit into the little plastic car.

The next day Tony gets the god to rig his tablet up to the ancient CRT TV on the wall (he’s so updating the whole hospital with new flatscreens when he gets out of here, because this is ridiculous). It takes a bit of weird wiring, but after twenty minutes of arguing over the best strategy they both sprawl out on Tony’s bed to watch Chicago. As he’d predicted, once the god gets over complaining about the high-pitched whine of the TV Loki loves it and gets pretty opinionated about the characters.

Ever since he’s gotten the suit, the god has been in a significantly better mood. He still fidgets and jumps at things Tony hardly even notices, but not nearly as much as before. Apparently the adrenaline helps ease the problems with excess energy. He hasn’t seen Loki smile this much in a pretty long time, and it makes his current situation a little better. Seriously, he’s fine, he doesn’t need to be an in-patient, but apparently Pepper doesn’t trust him to take it easy at home. Traitor.

Around two or two thirty they’re usually asleep—the god either beside him or in the chair with his head in his arms on the bed, depending on which he finds more comfortable at the time—and when he wakes up in the morning, Loki is gone.

Friday night, at about two fifteen, Loki’s chosen the latter and is fast asleep beside him. Tony stretches and yawns, then sets up another game of solitaire. Seriously, if he ever gets out of here, he’s never going to be able to play this again considering how many times he has in the past few days.

Ever since Pepper and he talked, he’s been trying to figure out what the hell Loki is to him. Admittedly, he can kind of see where she’s coming from, because he really has changed since Christmas. Maybe it’s because the god is more like him than anyone he’s ever met (although what it says about him that it’s an alleged inter-planetary war criminal he’s so similar to he doesn’t know).

Watching the god work is possibly one of the most fascinating things he’s ever seen, because his thought process is so foreign, but still makes total sense. He wants to pick his brain apart to see what makes him tick. Loki’s one of the first people he honestly can’t figure out, even remotely. He’s an impossible puzzle, and damn if that doesn’t make him want to solve him even more.

There’s a quiet knock on the door, and it swings open to reveal— Oh, shit.

“Hey, Cap. What’s up?”

Loki tenses just the slightest amount, unnoticeable to anyone who isn’t sitting right next to him, but Tony knows he’s woken up. Thankfully how he’s resting his head his face is hidden by his arms and hair, but this still isn’t an optimal situation.

“Sorry, I wouldn’t have shown up this late, but knowing you I figured you’d be awake.”

“Yep, you figured right. Is there a reason you’re here, or am I just awesome enough that you couldn’t resist my gorgeous face?”

Steve gives a long-suffering sigh, crossing his arms. “I haven’t gotten to come by since the fight, I just wanted to see how you’re doing. With Banner in Haiti and Thor back on Asgard, half the team is missing and that leaves us with a pretty big disadvantage.”

“Good to know it’s not because you just wanted to hang out and watch a movie or anything, I think I might have had a heart attack.”

“Cut it out, Stark; if you keep treating the team like you do it’s not going to help your case when Fury gets pissed at you again.”

“I’m terrified. Shaking in my boots. Well, I would be if I wore boots regularly and had them on in bed.”

The soldier just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Okay, I get it. And I’m fine, Pep says another day or two, they’ll take out the stitches, and I’ll be able to _finally_ get my ass out of here. Do you have any idea how awful hospital food is? I’m so sick of it, it should be a criminal offense to serve shit that has so little taste. I feel like I’m eating cardboard.”

“Don’t complain; you didn’t have to deal with military rations. _That’s_ bad food. Who’s your friend? I didn’t realize you had anyone spending the night.”

Shifting into B.S. mode, he smiles slightly. “That’s Lachlan.”

“The guy from the fight?”

“The one and only.”

Steve nods. “He wasn’t half bad, I’ll admit. With the way he took the impact, I’m surprised it’s not _him_ in the hospital.”

“Yeah, well, as he loves to point out, he _is_  technically in the hospital right now. He doesn’t seem to get that it doesn’t entitle him to the only things on my dinner tray that taste good.”

“Why does that seem like the sort of person you’d be friends with?” He laughs.

“Shut up, he’s awesome.”

“If you say so. Want to play something other than solitaire?”

Wait, is he actually trying to be sociable? Wow. He almost wants to take him up on the offer.

“Sorry, man, not tonight. It’s time for me to turn in. Tomorrow, maybe?”

“Yeah, sure. See you around.”

Tony waves, and the door shuts behind him. Loki immediately sits up, his breaths uneven.

“Woah, hey, it’s alright.”

The god closes his eyes and focuses on calming himself, although his nails still dig into his palms. Tony rests a hand over his, rubbing circles with his thumb until the god relaxes.

“You okay?”

He nods and runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry, that was just a bit… unexpected. I’m not one to enjoy being caught unawares with little means of escape.”

“Yeah, I get it. Not gonna lie, I was a little freaked out too.”

“Worried of what the good Captain would think if you were caught with your arch enemy?”

Tony shrugs. “Less the being with the enemy part and more the part where I’ve got a nice row of stitches in my leg and I probably shouldn’t be sprinting down a hall trying to get away.”

“You think you would be in danger?”

“Blitzen, I’m hanging out with you, willingly, and calling you a friend. They’re going to think I’ve been mind-controlled or something, and I don’t really want to deal with unhappy Avengers.”

“I suppose that is fair.”

Loki’s giving him a funny look, and he can’t quite decipher what it means. “Something on your mind, buddy?”

“What you said to the Captain…”

“Which part, you stealing my food, or not playing cards?”

“No, the other part about myself.”

“What, that you’re awesome? It’s true, you kind’a are.”

The god just looks confused.

“Oh for fuck’s sake. Stop beating yourself up about shit and get it through your thick alien skull that you’re not half bad.”

“You seemed to think I am when I get hungry,” he says with a slightly forced smirk.

“Because you take my food! You’re the one who can actually go grab a snack from the coffee shop or something! Oh, hey, that’s a good idea, actually. You should totally bring me coffee if you come tomorrow night. Just saying.”

“You’re insufferable, you flea-bitten lout.”

“I try.”

*

Despite his protests, Loki does actually show up with lattes, scones, and fruit the next day.

*

Sunday afternoon, he’s _finally_ discharged from the hospital—albeit with strict instructions not to run or get the suit out—and home has never looked so awesome. Has he ever mentioned how beautiful his tower is? Because it’s damn gorgeous.

“Loki? Hey, Loki!”

He's is nowhere to be found, so Tony goes god-hunting.   
  
He finds Loki sprawled out on his bed fast asleep, legs half-tangled in the blue and grey blankets and ebony hair unfurled behind him. Will it ever stop being weird to see the god while he’s sleeping? It’s the only time the tension finally drains from his body, when he looks even remotely at peace.

Deciding not to wake him up for the moment, Tony goes to the kitchen to find something to eat. He’s _starving._ Surprisingly, the cabinets are all fully stocked—Loki must have gone shopping or something—so he makes a couple peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and grabs a bag of chips, then heads down to the workshop. He’s fallen pretty far behind since he’s been away, even working on the tablet, because when it comes down to it, he’s a hands-on sort of guy. Things tend to work better if he can play around with them a bit.

Two hours pass to the tune of AC/DC and the smell of solder, although there’s a distinct lack of chaos from the chaos god so he decides to go investigate. There’s always the chance that he’s setting up some elaborate trick (it hasn’t happened yet, but Tony’s gotten to know him well enough that he’s pretty sure it will eventually, and that it won’t be pleasant when it does). To his surprise, Loki is still asleep, curled up around a pillow.

He sits on the edge of the bed and rubs the god’s shoulder gently. “Loki, wake up…”

With a displeased sound the asgardian rolls over to face the other way. Tony laughs quietly.

“C’mon, wake up, Dasher.”

Loki moans and covers his head with the pillow. “Go ‘way.”

“Aww, is that the way to treat your poor host, who’s been in the hospital for a week?”

“Mhmm…” He curls up again.

“You’re such an asshole, I swear to god. Stop being a pain in the backside.”

He turns back over with a huff, bleary-eyed and scowling. It’s not incredibly effective, since the bedhead kind of cancels out the glare. “Go ‘way or ‘m gonna kick you hard enough t’ send you back to the hospital, jus’ so I can go back t’ sleep…”

“I’m hurt, Loki, I really am. You wound me.”

“Wha’ time is it?”

“Like four thirty in the afternoon, how the hell did you even sleep this late?”

The god sits up sluggishly, still not entirely awake yet and his black shirt slightly askew. “You weren’t around, didn’t have to be up.”

“You are so weird.”

“Asgard’s days are longer, ‘m used to sleeping fourteen or sixteen hours a night.”

“Oh. Huh. Didn’t think about that.”

“Mhmm.”

“You’re really not a morning person, are you? Or afternoon person, since technically it’s pretty late in the day.”

“I hate everything…” he says in answer, stretching and brushing hair out of his face.

“I thought we established that back in December, didn’t we?”

The god makes a noncommittal sound, and Tony laughs. Loki swats at him half-heartedly.

“Nice room, by the way.” He hasn’t really been in here since the asgardian moved in, but it kind of suits him. The bookshelves are full, and everything is remarkably organized. Apparently at some point he brought the little altar-y thing from his apartment, so that’s sitting against wall, there’s a really comfy looking armchair, and lots of candles for some reason. Who knows. The god’s crazy.

Loki rubs his eyes and looks toward him thoughtfully. “May I ask you something?”

“Depends on what it is, I guess.”

The god reaches out and rests a hand on his chest. “Long ago, I asked you about the device that was here, but you would not speak of it. What was it, and why is it gone now?”

“It…” Tony hesitates, not comfortable with the subject. “That’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

He sighs. Loki’s showed quite a bit of trust in speaking to him about himself over the past days. It’s only fair that he do the same. “Five or six years ago, I wasn’t the same person I am now.”

“Nor was I.”

“I was known as the Merchant of Death,” he starts, and Loki decides to comment.

“I like the name.”

“Yeah, well, of course you do. Anyway, Stark Industries specialized in weapons manufacturing for the United States Armed Forces. I had a talent for making increasingly efficient, deadly missiles and guns, and wasn’t really that worried about the fallout. I was rich, partied twenty-four/seven, and generally was an awful person to everyone.

“Then one day I was out in Afghanistan doing a weapons presentation and we were ambushed. I got hit with shrapnel, kidnapped, and would have died. Turns out a bulletproof vest isn’t a match for a missile ten feet away from you that literally has your name on it.”

“But you didn’t die,” Loki prompts.

It takes him a minute before he speaks again. He’s never told anyone the entire story before, and it’s never included much of the cave.

“I woke up in a cave hooked to a car battery with an electromagnet in my chest. There was a man named Yinsen…”

Slightly stiltedly, Tony tells the story in full for the first time. When he gets to the torture he shudders and can’t continue for a few moments, Loki rests a hand on his back like he has for the god so many times now in the past, and waits patiently until he’s able to go on.

It’s hard to talk about, he finds, having to relive the fear and betrayal in his mind, but at the same time it’s like a weight is lifted from his shoulders. Not keeping it as a horrible secret buried in his chest where the reactor once resided is something he hadn’t realized would feel this freeing.

The Extremis incident in December he only skims, because it’s not as important to the arc reactor story, explaining primarily the parts that are relevant to get to the end when he’d had it removed and his chest reconstructed.

After he finishes Loki sits quietly, contemplating his words.

“In trying to break you, they made you stronger.”

“Guess so, yeah. I’ve never been able to figure out if I’m in some way thankful for it, because it made me the person I am—which I’ll grudgingly admit is better than I was—but at the same time, you know…”

The god nods. “I understand. I’ve been through things that I feel the same about.”

“You’re probably the first person to say something like that. Everyone seems to either pity me, which I hate, or tell me to get over it, which I hate even more.”

“We are much the same in some regards, I think.”

“I’m not sure whether to be scared or comforted by that…”

“Perhaps a bit of both.”

Tony fiddles with his hands, and his next words feel foreign on his tongue.. “Thanks for listening.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

“Yeah.”

*’*’*

That night, Loki jerks awake at a scream. Disoriented, he tries to get his bearings in the familiar darkness, but it takes a moment. A bit concerned (because generally that sort of sound is a bad omen), he climbs to his feet and stumbles down the hall trying to wake up.

The god fumbles for the doorknob—it’s been long enough since he last entered that the room is unfamiliar—and is met with a whimper, and Stark kicking out from the sound of it.

Norns…

He feels his way to the bed he’d fought his way through withdrawals in and crawls onto it to kneel beside the man, where his ragged breathing becomes all the more pronounced. Brushing his fingers over the mortal’s cheek, he speaks soothingly.

“Stark… wake up, ‘tis just a dream…”

He whimpers again and kicks out. Loki rests a hand on his neck, stroking gently with his thumb, and tries again.

“Wake up, Stark…”

The mortal startles back into awareness, bewildered and panting.

“It’s alright, just breathe.”

Loki can feel him nod after a moment. A hand covers his own and he turns it to lace his fingers with Stark’s, giving a reassuring squeeze.

“S-Sorry if I woke you…”

“It’s alright.” He shifts to a more comfortable position. “Was it the cave?”

Stark shudders and shakes his head. “Battle.”

“The chitauri?”

He flinches at the name. “No, the… god, I don’t even know what to call it. The darkness, the void…”

Loki’s head snaps to stare towards him. “I’m sorry?”

“It was…” The mortal searches for words, but can’t find them.

“An absence of everything and nothing. Incomprehensible, infinitely vast, so silent that your heartbeat is deafening. Impossibly _wrong_ beyond comprehension.”

“How do you–?”

He looks away. “As I said months ago—I fell. Into the abyss between Yggdrasil’s branches. I’ve been there too.”

The grip on his hand tightens. “How do you cope?”

“I don’t. There is no way to recover from that.”

“Eldritch abominations.”

“If you like, yes,” he says with a nod, and shivers. “When did you see it?”

“The battle—it’s how we ended it. The council decided the solution was to nuke the city, so I flew the bomb up through the portal. Thought I was gonna die out there, I honestly don’t know how I managed to fall back in time before Tasha shut it down, but you don’t forget what’s out there. I can’t stand silence anymore; it’s why there’s almost always music on.”

Loki nods slowly. “I understand. What you feel, after that. How it’s always hovering in your peripheral and you can never shake free of the terror.”

“I’m cracking up, Loki, and not in the fun laughing way. I don’t know how to deal with it. Maybe I would have gone to a shrink or some shit, but nobody can help with something like this.”

He tugs the mortal’s shirt to get him to sit up, then after a moment of hesitation wraps his arms around him. Stark leans into the contact, resting his forehead on Loki’s chest, still trembling with the aftereffects of the nightmare.

“Focus on the present. You’re not there anymore, you’re not alone, you’re safe. This realm is no longer connected to that place. It is solid and here around you; the laws of Yggdrasil hold true.”

“How long were you there?”

“I don’t know,” Loki admits, “time does not exist there as it does amongst the ash tree’s branches. Two of your years had passed when I arrived here, but that means little. I was there long enough to go insane and then find my mind again.”

“Shit.”

“There are some things, once broken, that can never be mended. Seeing that place is one of them.”

“We’re fucked up for good, yeah,” he murmurs.

“Mhmm. But we’re survivors.”

“They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but whoever ‘they’ is obviously hasn’t lived through very much shit.”

“Agreed—what doesn’t kill you is more than likely to scar your psyche.”

“Hooray for being fucking train wrecks…”

Loki sighs. “I believe that may be a severe understatement.”


	25. Forge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a quick FYI, if you're not familiar with knife terminology, the tang is the portion of metal that runs from the blade down into the hilt. It's not terribly important to know for the story, but that's what the term means when you come across it.

“I was wondering where you’d wandered off to,” the mortal comments as Loki drops a couple inches onto the landing pad.

“Out.”

“Thanks for that incredibly informative explanation. I couldn’t have figured that out on my own.” His voice is practically dripping with sarcasm.

“I decided to rob a bank. Lots of screaming and running around, followed by everyone cowering in the corner. Fantastic chaos.”

“Wait, you did _what?”_

“For Valhalla’s sake, Stark, that was a joke. Although it does sound like quite good fun… Maybe another day.” Loki steps down into the disassembly unit, rolling his shoulders and stretching once it finishes.

“Um, yeah, how about no?”

“How about you’re no fun?”

“But I’m also not doing the Cellblock Tango, am I?”

He smirks. “Rules are meant to be broken.”

“Didn’t your mom ever tell you that stealing is bad?”

“Of course. I was never very good at listening to silly things like that, though, not when the alternative provided so much entertainment.” Loki meanders inside, the mortal’s steps following after.

“Where you goin’ now?”

“Are you really this bored?”

“Ah… yeah. Pretty much.”

He sighs. “I’m going to go change into something more suited to it, and then go down to the workshop to finish what I started day before yesterday.”

“I wanna see!”

“Oh for the love of– fine.” It’s a descriptor he’s used before, but really the best one when it comes to Stark—the mortal is downright insufferable. With an irritated glance, Loki goes to change into jeans and whatever shirt happens to be on top in his dresser. He pushes up the sleeves so they’ll be out of the way, and instead straps on a pair of simple leather bracers he’d made back when he’d first started doing anything physical rather than computer-based in the workshop, partly to hide the scars on his arms, but largely because while he may be more resilient than a human, he learned as a child that sparks and sharp edges do still hurt. The god grabs a pair of leather gloves as well, but he relies on touch enough that he’ll likely only use them briefly.

When he returns to the common room, pulling his hair back to keep it from getting singed or in the way, Stark is waiting impatiently.

 _”Finally._ I thought you’d decided to take a nap or something.”

Loki doesn’t grace that with a response, instead heading downstairs with the mortal close on his heels.

“I’m not doing anything _that_ exciting, you do realize.”

“Oh, come on. I’ve barely watched you work because I’ve been doing other shit; I’m curious. Wait, since when do we have a forge in here?”

He raises an eyebrow as he lights a bit of kindling with a match and eases coal in until he has a decent flame.

“Coal? Really? Gas is so much easier.”

“Coal is quieter, more efficient, and burns hotter. So yes, I prefer coal. Considering I’m the one using it and not you, I do believe that it’s my preferences which matter more.”

Ignoring the following one-sided debate he rifles through a pile of metal to find the piece he’d been working with before. He’d not gotten very far, seeing as he’d started later in the day and gone to visit the mortal that evening, but he’s been looking forward to finishing it. While it may be significantly more difficult to do blind, this is something he’s familiar with and has always enjoyed doing.

He can’t tell when the metal is glowing brightly enough, so he has to guess based on the heat and the time passed. Once Loki feels it has (Stark is the sort to calculate everything in his head, but personally, he finds metalwork to be an art rather than a science), he removes it from the forge and sets to work, replacing it in the flame when it starts to cool in order to keep it malleable.

“So… what’cha makin’?”

Loki laughs. “You call yourself a genius—figure it out for yourself.”

Some time passes, in which the gloves find their use as he tests the shape of the piece, then the mortal finally seems to get it.

“Wait a sec, are you making weapons in my house?”

Loki smirks. “Technically so do you, considering your suit and the explosives and lasers contained therein.”

“Should I be concerned?”

“Not unless you plan to threaten me,” he replies with a shrug. “The only knives I currently own were purchased, and while they are acceptable, I don’t have a full set. I prefer to forge my own, anyway. I’m picky when it comes to shape and balance, and trust my own work more than that of others.”

“Now you just sound like me.”

Having finished forging the blade, Loki cuts the other end of the metal down and starts working out the tang. “Yes, I’ve started to see that. It is a pity you don’t use knives; they’re far superior to your suit in many ways.”

“Did you just say that a little scrap of metal is better than my brilliant feat of engineering?”

“Can you keep your suit hidden under your clothing, so that at any unforeseen threat you can defend yourself? Or carry it in any way discreetly, for that matter? What about cutting down enemies silently, from nearby or at a distance? Your suit may have its benefits, but a blade is far more practical.”

“Okay, just wondering then, why the hell do you seem to always have one whenever you’re spooked? Because that’s a little scary, not gonna lie.”

Setting down his work, he smiles, and lets the knife that he’d transferred earlier from his sleeve to his bracer slide down into his hand. Turning it handle-out, he offers it to the mortal.

“I am never completely defenseless.”

“So, what, you always carry a knife? That’s gotta be a pain getting through airport security,” he comments, taking the blade.

 _”A_ knife? Stark, you are truly a fool if you think I only have one. Boots are quite fantastic places to carry them, up your sleeve like the one you hold was, tucked into your belt, on the inside of your coat, hanging from a cord around your neck hidden under your shirt, strapped onto your legs… the list goes on.”

“Holy fuck. Now I’m kind’a terrified.”

“And how do you carry your suit?”

“Shut up.”

Turning back to finish the last few strokes of his work, he chuckles. “See? Knives have their advantages.”

“Okay, fine, you have a point. No pun intended.”

“I’m a god, Stark—I’m always right.”

“Now you just sound like a thirteen-year-old. How do you even do that blind? Holy shit.”

“Centuries of blade-forging tend to help.”

With the first done he finds the next piece of metal—a little smaller than the first—and turns back to the forge. A stool with a missing foot scrapes across the concrete floor and the mortal hops up onto it, tilting it back and forth on its uneven legs and causing the metal to tap obnoxiously. Threatening to throw a piece of hot charcoal at him if he doesn’t stop seems to do the trick, though.

Loki continues his work, chatting occasionally with Stark when the man isn’t focused on whatever project he’s working on, until all sixteen blades are forged and the edges ground down to smooth, deadly points. The mortal turns around a little while later to find him acid-etching them.

“Wait a sec, blindy, how the hell are you doing that?”

He glances up, one eyebrow quirked. “Can you write a word or two with your eyes closed?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Exactly. I’m not going to attempt to engrave dragons or anything of the sort; it’s just runes.”

“Why are you doing it on the tang, though? It’s just going to get covered when you finish the handle.”

With a patronizing smile, Loki holds up one of the half-finished knives. “These are just steel, and thus relatively weak. However, as I am currently incapable of acquiring a better metal—adamantium or uru would be possibly the best options, although there are other satisfactory metals in the realms—I have to make do with what you keep here. The runes aren’t decorative; they’re to reinforce the strength and resistance of the blades.”

“So, what, you just write on them and they’re magically stronger?”

“Oh, Stark…” he says with a long-suffering sigh, “you are so _human.”_

“Hey! Humans are awesome, don’t bash us!”

“You are also remarkably narrow-minded. Runic inscriptions involve–” he casts about for the term. “Valkyries, there isn’t a word for it in your language. It involves the base forces of Yggdrasil and the inherent power of properly written runes. Scribbling the shapes isn’t enough; one must have the correct willpower to give them their strength.”

There’s silence, and mortal is probably using some expression or another that’s supposed to mean something.

“Whatever face you’re making, I regret to inform you that I am incapable of seeing it.”

“Shut up, it’s just habit. And you totally lost me there.”

“Which is exactly why I called your kind narrow-minded. You need to learn to be more accepting of concepts you do not understand, for it is the only way to learn.”

“Learn what?”

“If someone on the street told you that it was possible for them to will a sheet of paper into flames, what would you say?”

“That they were crazy.”

“Precisely, yet there are those among you who can do that very thing. Only a handful, maybe seven or eight at most, and none in what would be seen by the masses as normal parts of first-world countries that I know of. They are shamans or sorcerers in cultures that believe in such things—faith is a strong force because it can tap into the mother ash. The few who have noticeable power grew up knowing the truth of the realms, their minds not molded by European skepticism. Humankind sabotaged themselves, when it comes down to it.”

“Whoops.”

He laughs. “Whoops indeed. It’s not as though it could be suddenly reintroduced, though, because people inherently fear the unknown. A survival instinct, true, but detrimental in many ways. They’re scared of anyone with strength they cannot understand.” Finished with the acid on his fourth knife, he cleans the wax off and moves on to coating the next.

“Like the whole mutant thing, yeah.”

“That is an intriguing evolutionary leap, I must say. It will be interesting to watch events play out and see which genes take hold and which don’t.”

“It’s so weird every time I remember that you live for like, ever, and can see that stuff happen over time.”

“Hardly. I’ll be killed eventually; I am not invincible. Such is the way of otherwise immortal warriors.”

“That’s depressing.”

“Not really. It’s far less so than your limited lifespan.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s true, though. In comparison to those of the other realms, your kind practically die as infants.”

“Okay, now definitely shut up. A hundred years is a damn long time.”

He gazes in the mortal’s direction, just thinking for a minute, then goes back to etching. “I suppose your mortality does have its benefits, though. Your culture changes at a lightning pace. It is impressive.”

“Ha! That’s better. Bathe in our awesome glory and be jealous.”

“Whatever you say… Are those runes even?” Loki holds one of the knives out to the man. “They feel it, but it’s hard to tell.”

“Yep, look good.”

“My thanks.”  He picks up eight of them, weighing each now-cooled blade to ensure the balance is correct, and smiles. “I’ve missed these.”

“Care to share with the class?”

“Stark, are you admitting that you are but a student? I am impressed.”

There’s a pause. “I’m sticking my tongue out at you, Loki.”

“How mature—thank you for proving my point.” With an short clank he sets those in his hand down, then offers a different blade. It’s perfectly symmetrical, ground to the sharpest point Loki’s learned to make in a couple thousand years of practice, and once the handle is wrapped it will be the weight and balance he’s found to be his favorite. He’s rather proud of it, actually, because it took a bit longer to make with a lot of trial and error, but even blind he managed to do a decent job. The runes are etched deeply into the steel—thurisaz first and foremost, along with sowilo, algiz, mannaz, inguz… the list goes on. He managed a few strengthening symbols as well, although most of them are too complex to do blindly. They would make beautifully intricate designs if he were able, but alas. No longer can he engrave dragons and wolves into his blades, nor horses, serpents, and phoenixes into his armor. ‘Tis a pity.

But this blade is well-crafted and will suit his purposes nicely.

The mortal lifts it, and he can only assume the man is inspecting the craftsmanship. “Not bad. Need to harden it, though.”

“Oh for the love of– I know how to harden and temper metal, idiot mortal, I just haven’t gotten that far yet.”

“Gotcha, sorry—I’m not used to dealing with people who can keep up. Stop being smart, dammit, you’re throwing off my groove.”

“You’re very welcome.”

He begins to build something to heat the blades in for hardening them, and Stark watches.

“That is… not how I’d do it. Interesting, though.”

“It’s more effective than human methods—your kind is so obsessed with innovation that you lose the instinctual side of things.”

“Fair enough, I guess. Although I still hold to the fact that math is awesome.”

He laughs and shoves the man lightly. “Narrow-minded peon.”

“Stupid asshole.”

*’*’*

Stark reappears again to find Loki sprawled out on the couch with the dagger blade between his knees, a leather cord in each hand, and a third held between his teeth, wrapping an intricate pattern to form the hilt.

“Holy shit, overkill enough?”

Loki tries to tell him to hang on, but it comes out a bit unfortunately with the cord in his mouth. A couple minutes later he’s wrapping the ending tails back in, and can speak intelligibly. “Trust me, there are more complicated methods. My primary set of knives on Asgard that I carried most of the time were better, generally engraved and either embedded or inlaid with a few jewels, and a more sparing leather wrap for grip, but I’m not able to do that sightlessly. This is comfortable, though, and looks nice for those of you who can still see, so it will do.” He tosses the dagger in the air and catches it after a flip, nodding approvingly.

“How does that even work? It’s fucking insane. I’m a _genius_ and I don’t get how it wraps like that.”

With a smile, Loki offers him one of the mid-sized knives and a roll of cord. “I’ll show you a slightly easier one, if you like.”

It’s not like he’s going to say no to learning shit from a god, especially since he doesn’t offer very often. Tony sits down beside him, taking the leather and blade.

“This is going to be a bit interesting to show you blind,” the god says, taking another blade to use as an example, “but I’ll do my best to explain.”

Loki is actually a pretty good teacher, although as he said, things are a little difficult since he can’t see what Tony is or isn’t doing right.  In the end they figure it out, though, and he’s pretty proud of himself. It’s definitely not the sort of thing he specializes in (and still feels kind of World of Warcraft or some shit), but it’s kind of cool. He offers the knife back to the god and tells him as much, and he smiles again.

“Keep it.”

“Wait, really?”

Loki shrugs. “I made more than I need, and you’d do well to keep a weapon on you more often. Give me your arm?”

“How many times do I have to remind you that I’m not a limb donor?”

“By Valhalla’s mead…” the god says, laughing. “I’m not removing it. At least not if you cooperate.”

“You freak me out sometimes, you know that?”

“It’s a talent of mine.” He reaches for a few strips of leather a bit wider than the cord and a couple inches long, cuts a handful of slits in each, then weaves cord through each individually and uses two more pieces that connect the four strips. “Okay, just hold your arm out? I’m not going to cut it off.”

With a dramatic sigh, he agrees.

Loki ties the leather around his forearm, and loops the cord around once on each section.

“Hold the knife against the palm side of your forearm, facing downwards. Careful not to cut yourself—my blades are indiscriminate when it comes to drawing blood.”

“Right…” He does as asked, though.

The god feels carefully for the position of the blade, holding the ends of the cord against Tony’s wrist with his other hand to keep it from loosening. “This takes a little bit of practice to do effectively by yourself, but I’ll try to break it down into steps…”

He shows him how to tie the knife down, using the loops of cord he’d already wrapped to keep the razor-sharp edge from cutting him by mistake, and wrap the remaining leather in a criss-crossed pattern back up to tie just under the outside of his elbow.

“It can be a little tricky at first to hold the knife and tie it at the same time, but you’ll learn. Now, stand for a moment?”

Tony gets up, and Loki does as well.

“You can always tie it hilt-down on your left arm to pull out with your right hand, but that’s both obvious in hostile situations and not always possible. Now, if you move your arm like this–” he gestures slightly, and the blade in his own sleeve slips down into his hand, “–it will dislodge the hilt from where it rests on the leather. The motion isn’t one I can ever imagine you using by mistake, and in centuries I never have as it’s rather precise, but be careful to keep your fingers out of the way until you’re used to it and it becomes natural.”

He tries it, being extremely careful not to get sliced (because he saw how easily one of Loki’s knives could cut leather with hardly any pressure), and catches it which, while a little awkward the first few times, is actually surprisingly natural.

“Huh. That’s actually kind of cool.”

“It’s come in handy on more than one occasion—the way it’s tied is something I figured out over time, so very few realize that a blade can be hidden there and accessed so discreetly.”

Wait, so, is this Loki’s version of giving him a suit? Well fuck, that’s a bit unexpected. Then again, Loki is sort of the king of never meeting expectations, so he probably shouldn’t  be surprised. The god shows him how to replace the knife without having to retie the leather, and has him try a few more times until he’s convinced that he can effectively practice on his own.

“Very good. Especially for such a blinkered coxcomb such as yourself.”

“See, I feel like that was supposed to be a compliment, but it kind of came off as an insult. You need to work on your people skills, Altair.”

The god laughs, and redoes his ponytail since it had gotten a bit messed up during his time metalworking.  “I am fantastic at diplomacy when I act as an envoy, I simply see no reason to do so at present.”

“Thanks a ton.”

“You’re welcome,” Loki replies with a cocky grin.

After a pause, he speaks. “Thank you though, seriously, for the knife. It’s awesome.”

“It does more good if you wear it consistently, as the entire point is to have a method of defense ready at all times. If you don’t have long sleeves then it is not very effective as a hidden blade, but there are other ways to carry it concealed.”

“You’re kind of paranoid, you know.”

“That ‘paranoia’ has saved my life on multiple occasions. I consider it simply staying prepared.”

“Whatever you say, man.”

Loki rolls his eyes and tries to shoo him off the couch where he’s sat down again so the god can put his legs up. Tony’s a bit lazy, though, and doesn’t want to move (the sofa is plenty big for two people and can definitely fit at least four comfortably—Loki’s just hogging the space), so the god apparently decides to ignore his presence and sprawls out on the couch again anyway, trapping Tony under his legs. When it becomes clear that Loki doesn’t plan to shift anytime soon ,Tony leans back against the cushions with an irritated huff and stretches, closing his eyes. It’s not really _that_ late, but he slowly sinks into dreams while the asgardian hums quietly to himself in the background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the off-chance that you're curious, this is the hilt wrap that Loki teaches Tony (although he uses leather instead of paracord, since it's what he's familiar with having grown up on Asgard):  
> http://www.flickr.com/photos/stormdrane/8057846208/in/photostream/lightbox/


	26. Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, instead of posting these two chapters over as many days, I decided to skip yesterday give you both at once. Whether that's good or bad is your call, but I felt mean about the cliffhanger.

Loki sits outside on the balcony, wishing he could see the stars. Or the city lights, at least, as he imagines they likely drown them out. The wind is cool, but not cold enough to really do any harm—or good, really, because right now he wouldn’t mind. He spins one of his smaller knives absentmindedly between his fingers. The familiar weight of it in his hand is comforting—makes him feel safer, even—since now he can carry what he’s used to. It’s kind of funny and kind of concerning at the same time how much the humans rely on trust to guard them. Even back on Asgard in the palace, he’d keep throwing knives strapped to his sleeve in plain view, in addition to the hidden dagger or two. He’s had threats on his life before. Not that they remained as such for long—the ‘warriors’ of the realm are so concerned with honor that they’ll almost always threaten him outright, and he’s sparred enough with Thor to know how to defend himself from lumbering fools. There was the occasional poison or arrow, sure, but those were few and far between. He learned quickly as an older child how to protect himself from those attempts as well, and Barton is the first in millennia to do anything more than scratch him. Grudgingly, he’ll admit that it was a clever trick.

The glass is a bit cold at his back, which is nice, since it grounds him to an extent. So is the gentle rustling of the plants Stark keeps out here, because it was too quiet inside. It still is, somewhat, but if he closes his eyes he can pretend he’s back on Asgard before any of this happened. Just sitting on the roof of the palace and enjoying the reprieve from the constant activity below. He misses those days, when he was ignorant and naïve. Things were so much easier then.

With a sigh, he leans his head back to rest against the window he’s sitting against. “Jarvis?”

“May I be of assistance?” asks the computer. Its voice is still just computerized enough to be disconcerting, but he’s grown used to its presence.

“If Stark made someone swear to tell him if something was wrong, but he was asleep, would it be considered breaking the oath not to?”

“Unless he specified otherwise, then technically I believe it would.”

 _“Fjandinn…”_  
  
“May I assume that person would be you?”

“It would be a correct assumption.”

“Would you like me to wake him for you?”

“No… that would be cowardly. It would be better to do myself. Thank you for your aid.”

“Of course.”

Loki regrets the promise now, but it is too late to retract it. Slipping the knife back into his boot, he rises and finds the door back inside.

*

Standing beside the bed, he wishes he’d kept the knife out. He opts for running a hand over the sheath on his arm, taking a breath to calm himself before he speaks quietly.  
  
“Stark?”

The man doesn’t respond, still asleep. Twice more he tries, still without success, and were it not for how he was raised he would have left. As it stands, he can’t, because he keeps his word.

“Stark…”

“Lo’?” The man says, half-asleep. There's a pause where blankets shift. Everythin’ okay?”

Unable to answer that question truthfully, Loki looks away. He keeps his expression carefully blank.

With a yawn, the mortal's feet scuff against the rug as he sits.

"I shouldn't have woken you, I'm sorry…"

"No, 's all good. Just gimme a sec to wake up."

Loki crosses his arms in front of his chest uncomfortably and tries to control the fight or flight instinct that's kicked in. He should never have promised this… well, actually, he only said he’d tell the mortal something was wrong, he never said he’d stay. Problem solved (sort of, as there’s already damage done). He steps away, planning to leave, but Stark catches his arm.

“Hey, don’ wander off on me.” He yawns again. “Let’s go for a walk. Gimme just a sec to grab a coat.”

Footsteps pad across the room, a door opens, there’s a rustle of fabric, and the man returns to his side.

“C’mon,” Stark says, voice taking on that tone he can’t identify. It’s the same one he uses whenever he convinces Loki to talk about the… darker parts of him. He hates not being able to read people.

He follows the mortal’s footsteps, and is handed his cane.

“Are you not in sleepwear?” Loki asks, confused.

“Eh, it’s New York City. Nobody gives a fuck.”

They step into the elevator, the only sound a slight whir as they descend from the penthouse to the ground floor. Loki takes the man’s arm and falls back a half-step, letting Stark guide him to wherever it is he’s planning. Outside at street-level the air is a bit warmer, and not as windy. The enduring noise of the city is louder down here, even at whatever crazy hour this is, and somewhere in the distance a siren wails. It’s still significantly less crowded than in the daytime, which he’s thankful for.

To be honest, he doesn’t really bother trying to keep track of where they are. All he wants to do is get lost. As far away as possible.

“Wanna go be irresponsible and grab a coffee or something?”

He shrugs.

Stark leads him into building, where some overly-chipper girl greets them, and he orders them lattes. The room smells kind of nice, he guesses, as most coffee shops do. It’s too warm, though, after he’s grown used to the night air.

The grinder is a little loud, too; at this point he feels like everything is too much. As the steam hisses he fidgets, just wanting to leave. Another girl is apparently behind the counter as well, because the two of them are having a rather animated conversation. It’s seen as bad manners to slit women’s throats, here, isn’t it? Damn…

At _last_ the drinks are finished and he reaches out to take his, only for Stark to catch his wrist when the arm of his jacket pulls up a little.

Shit, Rudolph, is this why you never roll your sleeves up?

He jerks away as though he’s been burned, finding his coffee and turning away. “Not here,” he hisses angrily.

They end up by the pond in Central Park, where the mortal finds a bench to sit on. Loki pulls his legs up to sit cross-legged, elbows resting on his legs, and takes a sip of coffee whilst resolutely ignoring the man beside him.

The silence stretches out for a few minutes before Stark decides to break it.

“Gotta admit, Loki, I’m surprised you came to me at all. Even if you’re being a little, well, you know, defensive in regards to the whole thing.”

“You made me swear.”

“Didn’t think you’d actually go through with it, though. Don’t get me wrong—I’m really glad you did—just, knowing you, I thought you probably wouldn’t.”

He glances over toward the mortal, eyes narrowed. “I don’t break oaths.”

“Woah, hey, not saying you do. People tend to promise things and not mean them, though.”

“Humans do.”

“What, things different in Asgard?”

Loki nods. “Your kind make and break promises like they’re nothing. Even if someone is to swear to something here, the chances of them actually going through with it are abysmal.” A Midgardian creature calls out in the background from the zoo’s direction, and he turns his head that way for a moment. “Oaths are serious in Asgard. It is a far, _far_ higher crime than killing a man. The consequence for murder is to pay weregild—call it restitution or blood money, whatever your culture refers to it as… but oathbreaking? If the other party makes public the offense, they can call for outlawry—however small the promise may have been. Even if you could survive in the wilderness alone for the rest of your life, you wouldn’t be able to make it out of the central kingdom alive. The citizens decide themselves how kind the death is.”

“Shit.”

“Oaths are not to be made lightly. I may lie, and cheat, and manipulate, but however dire the situation I will _never_ break an oath. Weasel my way around it? Perhaps, if something incredibly serious is at stake. But if I swear something—be it to family, a friend, or an enemy—I’ll never go back on my word. Thor is the same.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Station matters not. Consider it to be like an unbreakable vow from Ms. Rowling’s books—the punishment is the same for the lowliest slave to the Allfather himself—and oaths made on blood or over Gungnir are even more similar, in that the breaching party will die as soon as they do.”

“Remind me to never, ever swear to do something with one of you guys. That is some scary shit.”

He shrugs. “Not if the vow is legitimate and carried out. I’ve made plenty in my life. If you ever do, though, be infinitely careful with your wording, because all involved in the oath must formally agree to end it. It’s easy to get in trouble if you are irresponsible.”

“You’re stalling, aren’t you.”

Dammit. He was sort of hoping the man would forget about things. Still, Loki’s not ashamed of trying.

“Mhmm.”

Stark’s fingers wrap lightly around his wrist, and he grudgingly lets go of the cup with his left arm. Unable to keep (relative) eye-contact, he stares out into the distance and bites his lip absentmindedly, wishing that this would just end already so he can curl up somewhere and wait out the worst of things. The mortal pushes his sleeve up, further this time, and runs a thumb over the old scars running horizontally across the base of his wrist. It’s a gradient upwards from there, as he’s tallied the days (and they really are tallies, in careful sets of four) across his arm. He knows the number by heart, and how many times he’s started over from his wrists upwards again. The scars overlap each other imperfectly, as each row is placed a little differently, and the freshest are currently about halfway up that arm.

“Wait, are those stitches?”

Loki doesn’t let his expression shift from the neutral one he’s been keeping ever since he entered the man’s room. “It was accidental.”

Stark had to discover them eventually, he supposes, and in some ways it’s surprising it hasn’t happened sooner. If he were to focus his energy he could heal the wounds before they scarred, but that’s not the point.

“Are they for the same reasons you told me a couple nights ago?”

When he finally finds his voice, it cracks halfway through the word. “No.”

Loki tries to pull his arm away, and the mortal lets him. He tugs his sleeve back down with his teeth, since his other hand is full, then turns ninety percent of his focus to the sweet smell of coffee and the crickets’ chirps. He’s scared of what will happen if he speaks the truth about this.

“Would you tell me?”

He shakes his head.

“Please?”

“I– I can’t, Stark. I–” Loki shudders at the memory still so clear in his memory, and has to fight back the traitorous tears that threaten to well up.

An arm wraps around his shoulders comfortingly, and the contact still makes him want to flinch away at first before he can relax into it. He’s not used to such things, except being grabbed in the midst of battle or some sort of threat. The mortal doesn’t ask him again, apparently understanding that pushing on such a subject will not end well. And it probably wouldn’t if he were to—as much as he regrets harming him a few months ago, the chances he’d lash out are incredibly high.

“Things are going to be alright. Maybe not fantastic, considering who we are, but alright. You can make it through this, and we’ll figure shit out.”

It’s not what he needs to hear right now, because it’s not true. Some things are too shattered to be mended—pieces go missing even if you try to sweep them all up. Just little ones, a tiny shard here and there as the blows come, until one day you look down and there’s a gaping hole where hope once lived.

Then again, although the odds are incredibly low, someone may come and destroy everything you are in one blow, and burn the pieces while you watch them laugh.

He’s too far gone to ever be alright.

“They– They’re a punishment. To make sure I never forget what I have caused,” he eventually manages, and immediately regrets it. The mortal is entirely too curious, and now…

“What did you cause, that you’re punishing yourself for?”

Loki stands quickly, enough so that if he hadn’t been drinking from it as a distraction his coffee probably would have spilled, and backs away. He can’t–

He runs his free hand through his hair (although it doesn’t do much, considering he’s tied it up) and tries to slow his breathing. Loki won’t break, not here, not now. The neutrality on his face slips for a moment, and it’s long enough for the man to catch. Briefly, he debates whether he’s cursed enough already, or if cursing himself for that mistake would even do anything at this point. He goes with the latter option.

“Loki?”

Try as he might, he can’t keep from pacing. Standing still isn’t possible at this point. Doing so would lead directly to some form of destruction, and it’s hard enough to keep from wreaking havoc as it is.

May a thousand curses be on his head, and then a thousand more. On his head _alone._

“Take me back to the tower,” he grits out.

Finally realizing that it’s not something he should push at, Stark stands and lets him take his arm. They walk back to the tower in silence, Loki focusing his effort to not to just snap the fool’s bones and leave him to bleed out on the sidewalk in the dark, like he himself had nearly done when he’d first fallen into Midgard.

*

Loki deliberately avoids the mortal for the next three days. While he’d normally meditate at this point (or for two months drown things out in morphine, which sounds fantastic right now, damn the consequences), he’s too restless now, too restless to even sleep. Everything seems to have culminated at the absolute worst time, because despite the flying and fighting easing things a little, it’s not enough. Chaos gnaws at him from the inside out, determined to be released if it takes cleaving him in two; he can feel the frost creeping in, accumulating slowly, as a promise of the fear and pain to come; and adding the sudden onslaught of horrific memories threatens to destroy him entirely.

He wants to climb to the highest point of the roof and scream into the night.

So he does.

He’s tried, he really has (not that anyone would ever believe that), but he just _can’t take it anymore._

With his course of action coming to the first clarity he’s felt in years, he goes back inside and takes the stairs down to the workshop.

*’*’*

Six days after he’d tried to talk to the god, he wakes to a call from Fury telling him he needs to come in. As in an _Avengers Assemble_ gig.

It’s too early for this shit…

Tony suits up, grumbling all the way about fucking Hydra making a mess of things again, and flies out to the coordinates SHIELD sent him where the team will meet up. Well, the team minus Thor and Bruce still, which is more like four people who hate each other except for the fact that two of those four are actually pretty close buddies and also happen to be master assassins.

As for how they’ve managed to get anything done like this, he has no idea.

Sure enough, a few Hydra agents have gotten their hands on some scarily effective explosives, and according to what he’s picked up through hacking into their comms, they’re going to hold some sort of ‘demonstration.’ That demonstration apparently being making things go boom.

And a lot of shit is going boom.

Damage Control is going to have one hell of a job ahead of them even if the four Avengers can take Hydra’s crew down, because they’ve already been pretty strategic about the placement of the explosives. It’s localized, but that just means that the area they’re destroying is all the more, well, destroyed.

They decide to go straight for the leaders, who Tony has found are carrying the transmitter for their comm system. The fight is long and arduous, with lots of bashing heads together and angry yelling, but it’s not as bad as it could have been. They’ve fought enough of these assholes in the past that they know their weaknesses.

Not far in front of them, five loud explosions sound at a staggered rate causing two retail buildings to fall, and the destruction they cause alone is a little too well-planned to be the usual Hydra hijinx. Almost before they can react, another three on their left bring an office building down.

An off-balanced laugh comes from behind them, the sort of sound that makes your skin crawl in apprehension of the coming danger. The team turns around, weapons raised, ready to attack.

Loki stands, a blade in one hand and a pistol he must have snatched from a fallen Hydra agent in the other, with a feral grin that grows as they focus on him. God only knows where he got it, but a dark grey cloak is wrapped around his shoulders. His raven hair whips in the night wind.

“Well if it isn’t the pathetic mortal team, back together again. Have you worked out your issues yet, or should I call you a therapist?”

“Stop this, Loki, stand down, and you won’t get hurt,” Natasha says in the terrifyingly neutral voice that screams _run for cover._

He laughs again, and this time it has a cruel bite to it. “How funny—I was about to say the same thing to you.”

The god wastes no more time on speeches, apparently smarter than most of the villains they go up against (which shouldn’t surprise Tony, and doesn’t, but mainly because he’s still processing that it’s fucking _Loki_ ), and shoots at Steve’s head. Were it not for Clint predicting the move and moving just as fast to shoot the gun off-target, the wound would have been lethal.

As it so happens, it only makes Loki that much angrier. He leaps at the archer, catching him across the jaw with the knife, and leaves a fairly deep gash.

Snapping out of his shock, Tony shoots toward the god and drags him a block away before Loki grabs onto something; the momentum ends in them rolling a dozen feet or so on the cracked asphalt. Both are up almost immediately, at each other’s throats.

“Loki, what the hell _is_ this?”

“You told me not to rob banks. You never said anything about razing them to the ground.”

He actually manages to hold his own in the fight—having spent so many afternoons sparring together, Tony knows a couple of the god’s tricks and how to break out of a few of his favored holds—but when it comes down to it, Loki’s got thousands of years experience on him. Tony’s been fighting semi-seriously for, what, five? That’s a pretty big skill gap.

Steve jumps in, as does Natasha, giving Clint time enough to wipe the blood away from his neck. Even together it’s a difficult battle. Loki said he was holding back last time? He definitely was.

Advice spoken months ago echoes now in his mind.

_You do not want to be near me when I actually fight, believe me._

_You should run, if I ever truly let go—because Loki as you know me stops existing._

Shots ring out, and he’s thankful that they’re all required to wear bulletproof vests, although at close range the two shots that connect with Steve’s chest still knock him back and will probably leave bruises.

Somehow the god’s glasses never slip, and he assumes Loki found a way to keep them secured so that the other Avengers wouldn’t realize that he’s blind. If you didn’t know he was going into the fight, it would be damn hard to tell, because he’s learned how to track the location of enemies by sound. It’s not perfect, and since he’s watching for it Tony can see when he miscalculates and a blow misses. Even when he trips, though, he uses it to his advantage.

Loki isn’t there, the asgardian hadn’t been lying—he fights like a feral beast that’s been starved for a year and a half. The damage he causes isn’t a small amount by any means. Tony’s the only one who hasn’t gotten cut yet thanks to the suit, but his left arm didn’t quite miss a clawing hand and under the crushing metal it feels like his arm might be broken. Even with the aid of the mechanics, he’s worn out and gasping for breath. As for how Clint and Natasha are still fighting he has no idea. Steve looks like he’s tiring, but the whole supersoldier thing has its benefits.

As for the god? He’s panting, sure, but he must be running on pure adrenaline. Bruises and cuts mar his skin and the cloak is long since gone (turns out it took almost no effort to pull off, as Steve found when he tried to grab it earlier and got a fist in his face instead), hair wild and matted with blood. Whose it is, Tony’s got no clue.

He raises a hand to hit the asgardian with a repulsor blast, but Loki ducks and spins to grip him from behind.

“Hello, Stark,” the god purrs, pressing the manual release on his helmet and letting the metal fall to the ground with a clang. Genuine fear wells up in Tony’s chest as he struggles to get away.

“Oh, come now. Do you honestly think I’d use something you know how to escape from to restrain you?” He laughs, low and animalistic.

He can’t hold back a shudder, and tries to get free again.

“Now, let me think… I do seem to recall that this suit of yours requires a power source, does it not?” Fingers skim up over the chestpiece to rest on the arc reactor. More Hydra agents have appeared, this time armed with more than a single clip of bullets, and by the time the rest of the team has taken them down Loki has a knife to Tony’s throat just hard enough to draw a few drops of blood. He’s also found a position that neither traps him nor leaves his back exposed. The three Avengers have their weapons raised, but don’t dare to take a wild shot at risk of his life (and he’d appreciate that, except he’s kind of focused on other things at the moment).

“Loki, stop, this isn’t y–” he manages, but the god cuts him off.

“Isn’t what, isn’t _me?”_ If the arc reactor had still been in his chest instead of just the suit, the way the god rips it out would have killed him almost instantly. “Oh, Stark, you poor blind fool. I almost pity you. Do you honestly think you could understand the mind of a god? No doubt Thor has filled your mind with tales of how innocent and good-hearted I am. Stories viewed through rose-colored glasses of a poor façade I created a thousand years ago. I’ve long since perfected it, not that he’d know. “

“Jarvis,” he whispers, hoping that there might be just enough residual power…

"The truth is that I am chaos incarnate, mortal. I am fire, and ice, and rage. I am the darkness that hides in the corners of the best men’s hearts. I am Loki, of the Void, and you ar–”

  
At the same time his gauntlet releases, Tony twists his arm and drives his blade into the god’s side.


	27. Oath

Loki stumbles, and the knife he’d been holding clatters to the pavement with what feels like deafening volume. His grip on Tony loosens as the asgardian steps back, but the way his weight falls he doesn’t loosen his own hold on the blade fast enough.

The god collapses, one hand clutching his side to slow the bleeding, his expression one part rage, one part pain, and two parts betrayal.

Without the arc reactor, the suit is pretty damn hard to move in, and it takes a minute to take it off manually. By the time he has, Loki has climbed back to his feet and is, from what he’s learned about him, most likely trying to calculate an escape route. The Avengers take advantage of the situation and attack again.

To say the god doesn’t go easy is a gross understatement. It takes Steve and a team of eight SHIELD agents that have been waiting in the wings to subdue him, and by subdue Tony means chain him up enough to drag him into a quinjet and out to a containment facility in the middle of the desert. He’s anything but willing.

In stark contrast to the first time he’d shown up on Earth, when he essentially sat around in amusement and smirked at people whilst walking happily wherever they led him, this time Loki turns rabid. The entire way, he struggles violently and lashes out at any and every opportunity given. He’s clever, though, even like this, and every once in a while will feign exhaustion or compliance only to strike out again a few moments later. The number of agents who’ll need to spend a night or two in the med bay is scary.

Metal clinks loudly as he lunges toward of the youngest of them, making her jump back, and he uses the chance to sweep her legs out from under her and loop one of the chains around another man’s throat. Steve just barely manages to free the agent before the god snaps his neck. As it stands, Loki bites down on the super-soldier’s arm hard enough to draw blood, and causes Steve to pull back with a hiss of pain. The closer they get to the holding cell the harder he fights, and he manages to break a couple fingers of another agent. The cracking sound makes him grin—a terrible, animalistic thing made all the worse by the blood on his teeth.

When at last he’s shoved forward roughly into the glass prison he shrieks loudly enough to hurt the ears of anyone around and spins, hand slamming down hard where a fraction of a second earlier was a gap in the door.

Realization that there’s no way out slowly washes over him and he sinks to his knees, fingers leaving wet crimson streaks in their wake. The feral edge doesn’t leave, but he sits for a few moments just panting, remaining alert and ready to fight again at the next mistake in SHIELD’s actions. When his energy returns, he stands and prowls to the center of the cell, standing tall with a snarl on his face, every subtle shift of his body pure aggression.

The Avengers watch from another room, where the security footage is being played in real-time on the wall while SHIELD medics bandage the worst of their wounds (as though they’re incapable of doing it themselves). Tony does appreciate the guy who sets and casts his arm, though, as long as he ignores the fact that it hurt like hell.

It’s funny, really, how _Loki_ acted like the one who was betrayed in this whole thing. In some ways, he can hardly bring himself to look at the god, after how serious he’d been about killing him. Tony has no doubt in his mind that he would have gone through with it if need be.

Loki had warned him. Multiple times, in fact, that he was dangerous and not to be trusted. In some regards this is all probably his fault.

Especially considering what had happened a week ago.

But beyond all that is something the god had admitted, and reiterated earlier during the fight—he’s chaos. Inherently. Tony has seen the struggle in his eyes on bad days, when Loki paces the room and jumps at the rustle of paper or the muted chirp of a bird that’s just barely audible through the glass overlooking the city. He’s seen him work himself literally to the ground, then stand and keep going, just to take the edge off. He’s seen the aftereffects of something Loki’s trying to hide, and hasn’t been able to get Jarvis to show him. Apparently the god convinced the AI that Tony doesn’t need to know.

He’s not sure he agrees, but if Loki’s gone to that much trouble to keep him from seeing, he isn’t going to hack Jarvis to find out. Tony’s concerned, but not enough to intervene and break what trust he’s gained.

Not that it matters that much now, all things considered.

The mix of emotions is confusing as hell, because half of him wants to go tell the god that it’ll be okay, and the other half wants to strangle him. He’s still freaked out about what happened in the fight… namely the part where Loki went for the arc reactor. For a moment, instinct said it was still part of _him_ and not just his suit.

In the end he decides that he’s pissed but understands how much the god’s been trying to keep control, and if this gets sorted out, he can probably forgive him, if not forget.

SHIELD argues for a little while over what to do with him, but there really isn’t much choice except to contact Asgard. He’s their prisoner, and even though he escaped (which Fury is far from happy about), they’re the ones with jurisdiction.

Tony’s conflicted about what to do. With the sudden change in Loki’s character he’s not going to let him out—that’s just asking for people to get killed—but sending him back to Asgard is a really bad idea too.

He should have thought about this more. _They_ should have thought about this more.

There’s no way he’s going to convince the Avengers now that Loki isn’t just a psychopathic, psychotic villain, and if he tries, it could mean he won’t be allowed in to see him in fear that he’ll do something to break him out. SHIELD gets kind of paranoid about stuff like that, irritatingly.

Tony decides that hacking into their network is the best option at this point, because that will give him access to pretty much every part of the facility. It’s not hard, considering they use Stark tech (because it’s obviously the best).

What they _don’t_ know is that he programs back doors into all his software and equipment. Only accessible by him or someone he programs in (Pepper and Rhodey, right now), and turns master control over to them in a convenient, phone-friendly format.

The first order of business is downloading Jarvis to all their servers, because then if something happens to his phone, he’s still in command.

Has he ever mentioned how brilliant he is? Because he’s pretty damn smart.

Also really anxious, because the ways he sees this playing out aren’t happy ones.

*

There’s a deafening clap and boom of thunder half a moment before lightning flashes, and everyone glances toward the window.

“Does he ever _not_ make an overly dramatic entrance?” Clint asks.

“Don’t think so. Must be some rule of Asgard,” Tony shrugs, trying to ignore how his stomach drops at the sound. “Rule number three, after wearing weird helmets and talking like they’re Shakespearean.” He leans back against the wall he’s sitting by, and turns the hologram he’s been fiddling with to try and distract himself until there’s something more to go on, humming absentmindedly..

A little while later, after he's talked to Fury or whatever they do to say hey to gods, then trying (and failing) to have a conversation with Loki—which end with a few scary things snarled in Asgardian, an off-balanced giggle, and then total silence—Thor enters the room they’ve been hanging out in for the past hour or so.

“I am deeply sorry,” he tells them, “for Loki’s actions. We searched for him when we heard he escaped, but he has always had a talent for veiling himself from pryinging eyes. He will not do so again, the Allfather will ensure it.”

Okay, yeah, Tony doesn’t like the sound of that.

The thunder god starts asking them about how they’ve been, which, really? Apparently the Bifröst isn’t totally repaired yet, so the tesseract-based whatever they’ve rigged to it has to recharge before it can safely transport people. He doesn’t really listen, only enough to know if they start talking about something useful, and goes back to his previous activities. Natasha and Steve both go to try and talk with Loki, but the god just stands in the center of the cell and stares murderously at anyone who approaches, with the occasional crazed laugh. Natasha especially so, likely because she tricked him last time.

To be completely honest he wants to go down, but Loki terrifies him right now. He has a couple ideas if worst comes to worst, but they’re kind of iffy and he doesn’t want to risk lives if he doesn’t have to.

Thor glances down at him at some point in the conversation and looks at him funny.

“Uh, yeah?”

He shakes his head. “Forgive me, the recent events with Loki have skewed my mind. That melody sounds like one my mother used to sing to us as children, I’d forgotten about it.”

Fuck, he hadn’t really been paying attention to what he was humming. “I was kind of just making stuff up, but that’s cool.” Note to self: don't hum songs you've only ever heard from a fugitive asgardian around other asgardians.

“Aye…” After one last curious look, he turns back to the other Avengers and resumes their conversation.

Clint grudgingly goes down to try to pry information out of the god, but the results are just a freaked-out archer when Loki only stares at him and giggles.

“Hey, Stark. He talked to you during the invasion, right?”

“Yeah, sort of. Then threw me out a window.” Dammit, please don’t ask…

“Well, it’s your turn. Probably won’t get anything out of him, but you might talk him to death. Never know.”

Of course she asked. “Romanoff, how about not? Every time I see him he likes to hurt me.” Tony points at the cast. “Or kill me, he’s tried that both times.”

“Stark is a chicken, Stark is a chicken!” Clint sings, then clucks like a hen until Tony throws a box of band-aids at him.

“Hey, you’re the bird-man, not me. I’m the Iron Man. And I’m awesome.”

“Just go, Stark; if we can get intel then we might have a leg up in the future.”

He sighs and climbs to his feet, rolling up the holo-pad and tossing it on the table.. “Okay, okay, fine. I’m going…”

This is going to end badly, he can feel it.

*

When he steps into the fluorescent-lit room surrounding the fishbowl of villainy, the god cackles and turns to face him. He’s still covered in blood and dirt, the same feral grin as before spread across his face, although he’s shaking with what looks like exhaustion. Not that Loki will ever show it, of course, because he’s way too obsessive about looking powerful around potential and known enemies.

His footsteps seem way too loud again as he walks forward and leans against one of the railings (seriously, what is it with SHIELD and their repetitive building style, this is damn close to the helicarrier and it’s weird), shivering when their eyes meet—sort of, at least, and the god’s wearing the sunglasses still anyway.

“Hey there, Donder. Enjoying the finer things in life, I see.”

Loki’s head snaps up, suddenly attentive.

Well, that’s disconcerting.

“Stark,” he growls.

Tony waves. “The one and only. So, the Avengers sent me down here because apparently you know cool stuff or whatever. Care to share with the class?”

*’*’*

Loki crosses his arms. “Now, why would I do that?”

The mortal jumps onto something metal and hollow. A railing? He’s probably sitting on a railing if this room is at all like the one on the helicarrier. “Good thing the arc reactor isn’t still life-support. Thanks for that, by the way, because those suits are just _so_ easy to build.”

He wants to wince, but right now that could be a fatal mistake. “Good thing I was holding you like I was, so the knife couldn’t hit anything vital when you decided to _stab_ me.”

“Guess we’re both just fantastically lucky, then.”

The silence that falls between them may as well be tangible.

“Thor is here, isn’t he.” Dread sinks into his heart.

“Yep. How’d you guess?”

“You smell of Asgard,” Loki replies with a shrug. No doubt Thor was overzealous and got sentimental and affectionate or some nonsense—the oaf always seems to act strangely on Midgard and do things he never would on his home realm.

“Creepy.”

“Not particularly; I’m assuming he started hugging people not long before you entered. The ventilation in the cell shares the same air as that outside, so think of it as when one walks into a room with quite strong perfume. The difference is that my senses are more acute than yours, and I can pick up on subtleties.”

“Still creepy, sorry.” The mortal swings his legs, making the bars of what must definitely be a railing echo hollowly.

He rubs his wrist absentmindedly and looks down. “I know you have little reason to believe or care, but… I’m scared, Stark.”

“No, I believe you.”

He laughs, but it’s not the crazed thing from before. It’s just hopeless. “But you don’t care.”

“Never said I didn’t.” Nor did he say he did, but that’s not the point.

He doesn’t deserve it, he really doesn’t and he knows that, but considering this is pretty much the end…

The Avengers no doubt believe him to have some trick, some manipulative reason for talking to the man, or that he’s stalling for time while minions work elsewhere like back during the invasion. They don’t know enough to see the gaping hole where magic once blossomed, or the invisible scars where it twined around his veins and his soul itself (or whatever twisted thing sits in its place, he doesn’t know and doesn’t care).

There’s no way out, not this time. He can’t escape, not on his own since he couldn’t make it out without aid, and this place is no doubt away from civilization like the last base he’d visited. Even if Stark helped him, where would they run that SHIELD couldn't follow?

Crossing his arms in some vain form of comfort, he closes his eyes, trying to block everything out. Trying to forget, and just be the man he once was for a few moments. It doesn’t work. Too much has changed for that.

“I don’t want to die, Stark, but I’m terrified. I always knew things would end like this, but… I guess I tried to fool myself. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“You don’t know for sure that’s what’s going to happen. Pretty sure Thor’s not going to be happy with that ruling.”

Fighting back the urge to yell at him for speaking as such about his not-brother, he shakes his head and turns to face the man. “The Odinson held me down and sewed my lips shut,” Loki says, voice breaking halfway through. “He cares not for what happens to me. His eyes that day…” He shudders, remembering the ice-cold gaze. “If he ever had hope for me, it’s gone now. He’ll do nothing for me.”

And it’s true, he doesn’t doubt it. Thor is just a copy of his father now, as Loki is a copy of his.

“Do you think he’s wrong?”

The laugh that escapes him is neither intentional nor entirely sane. “No. I’m a monster, and I know that. In blood and in action, it’s undeniable, but even monsters still have the instinct toward survival.” He sighs. “I can say nothing to prevent them from returning me to Asgard, and even were I to somehow escape, _He_ will find me. I am a damned man, Stark.”

It’s hard to say which would be worse—being judged by the Allfather, or caught by Him. It’s not like he’s given a real chance to defend himself either way, and what if they do once more what they’d already done? Or worse?

How can he ever go back, when that’s to be his fate?

Then again, they may decide he’s not worth the risk and just execute him outright. That would probably be the kindest option, but he knows not how likely.

“That’s not the healthiest outlook on life, just saying.”

Loki shrugs numbly. “It’s game-over for me, Stark. No tricks, no lies; there’s nothing I can do but try to come to terms with it.”

The mortal doesn’t speak.

He knows full well that he isn’t in a position to ask for anything, but he can’t help it…

“Would– Would you stay?”

After a pause, Stark replies. “Yeah.”

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

*

He sits across from the god, heart shattering at the utter hopelessness in his expression. Tony is still angry, and really wants to just yell at the asshole, but shouting abuse at someone who doesn't look like they'll fight back isn't very satisfying. Since when does Loki just back down? Unless he's plotting something, which is always possible…

"Do you have some grand master plan, here, to take SHIELD down or whatever?"

The god laughs half-heartedly. "If I did, do you honestly think I would pour my secrets out to you?"

"Hey, it was worth a try."

"I'm not, though. Planning anything, I mean."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

Loki pushes a lock of hair that's fallen out of his ponytail back behind his ear. "Have I ever lied to you, Stark?"

"Donder, of course you have. You're the god of lies," he reminds him with a laugh.

The god gazes at him, expression the unreadable one he seems to have down to an art. "When?"

He casts about for something, but all he can think of is when he was joking, or when he'd say he was alright and obviously not be. As far as he knows, Loki hasn't.

Well shit.

Apparently his silence is answer enough, because the god smiles sadly. "Let me prove it to you, since desperate times can lead people to do desperate things, and I have already turned my blade against you this morn." Loki pulls one of his smaller knives from his jacket, gazing toward him solemnly.

"I swear before you, Tony Stark—before those bearing witness behind the cameras, and before Yggdrasil Herself—that I have no ill intent towards you or any other, nor against any of the nine realms, and will not raise arms against you unless you explicitly and freely release me from this oath. I swear to make no attempt to circumvent, manipulate, cheat, or take advantage of these terms, until I am released either by you or death. I, Loki, theft-son of Odin and blood-son of Laufey, do vow by my lifeblood to honor this oath.” After wiping the dust on his left hand onto his pants (not that it does much good, considering how dirty his clothes had gotten in the fight), he runs the new blade across his palm. Bright crimson wells up as he turns his hand toward the glass so Tony can see, expression resolute. “So mote it be.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, the gravity of the situation sinking in. If Loki had been telling the truth a week ago—and while he could have been lying, at that point there had been no discord between them—then he may as well have just shackled himself and given Tony a gun.

“Okay, now, see I’m thinking _that_ was the desperate shit you were talking about, not you smacking me upside the head. Overkill, much?”

“I just wish for your trust, Stark. I don’t want you to fear me again.”

“Yeah, not gonna lie, you’ve kind of freaked me out big-time today.”

The god nods in agreement just as a familiar voice calls from behind him.

“Stark, can you come upstairs for a minute?”

Unsure if that’s a good or bad sign, Tony gives Steve a thumbs-up. “On my way.” He drums his fingers on the glass once in front of the god, and gives an apologetic smile he’ll never see. “Be right back, Rudolph.”

Loki makes an apathetic noise, although there might be a tinge of sorrow there if he thinks too hard about it.

He stands and turns, following the soldier.

*’*’*

SHIELD had been desperate enough to contain him that they hadn’t searched him. Possibly an idiotic move on their part, as they had no idea on what he’d had on him at the time, but it means that he still has his phone. With practiced ease, he opens his texts.

_0 (770)090–0461_

_‡manualoverride * [[foxtrotE¬8ar¢hangelAutumn]]_

_new TimerTask() {_

_scheduledExecutionTime %= currTime;_

_run(task);_

_holo.sendTo(homeAdmin);_

_‹‹*01100110011011110111001001100111011010010111011001100101001000000110110101100101››_

_}_

*’*’*

“You two sure seem like good friends,” Natasha comments when he meets the team in one of the conference rooms. Not that it’s very conference-y feeling, though, since she’s got her feet up on the table, Clint’s laying on top of it, and Thor is half-sitting-half-leaning on the opposite side. Their weapons are just close enough to be able to grab at a moment’s notice, but not in their hands. He takes that as a vaguely good sign.

“Yeah, well, you guys missed the house party during the invasion. I made a dramatic entrance, he tried to match the awesome and failed, I offered him a drink, there were copious amounts of snark–”

“Thank god that sentence didn’t end how I thought that sentence was going to end.”

“Huh? How did you think–” Oh. Way to keep your minds out of the gutter, everyone. “Oh my _god,_ I’m not _that_ crazy! I’m not going to drag the psycho god into my bedroom while he’s got a—okay, no matter what word I use for the scepter in this context is going to sound wrong. No, don’t look at me like that, Thor, I did not even _consider_ fucking your brother until she said that.”

The thunder god is giving him that look again, and it’s starting to get disconcerting.

 _“ANYWAY,”_ he cuts back in. “There was _snark,_ not sex, we called each other names, I made a dick joke or two, and he threw me out a window. Then I smacked him in the head with my suit and flew back up to shoot him in the face. It’s how all great friendships start, right?”

They look a little unimpressed, which is lame. That was probably his most badass moment that day, after all.

“Okay, a little credit please, because _I’m_ the one who said hi without superpowers, a weapon, or reinforced Hulk-resistant glass between us.”

Natasha just raises an eyebrow, and Steve takes over the conversation. “Okay, so Thor’s been talking to Fury and the Council–”

“Wait, those fuckheads are still around? After the nuke stunt? I vote they become our next mission because at least Hydra is openly evil. And not government.” It’s their fault he ended up on the other side of that portal, and he may or may not have a personal vendetta. Nobody seems to get just how much that screwed him up, and how much he wants to take them down in whatever way is convenient (and preferably painful). He’s started to understand why Loki gets so mad thinking about Thor and stuff, if he was in the Void for, what, a couple years? Maybe? Like the god had said, time is relative, so there’s no real way to know without some science he’s _not_ doing the research for. “I fucking _hate_ them.”

“Not the time, Stark. As I was saying, Thor’s been talking to the Council and trying to work out something that everyone can agree on. We were going to just send them back to Asgard together, with a couple stipulations, but considering that he’ll talk to you, it might be good to try and get a little more out of him. He’ll have to show his cards eventually—his ego’s too big to keep his plan hidden forever. If he’s working with Hydra or someone else, we can prepare for them that way.”

“Who do you think I am, the crazy-guy whisperer?”

Natasha laughs. “I thought that was your first language.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“He can’t be trusted, whatever he said about not hurting people, but if you can get him to keep talking, that would really help us.”

Tony glances up at Thor (he’s holding onto the whole sewing-Loki’s-mouth-shut thing to process later—trying to work out their relationship can wait). “Hey, buddy. What’s a blood oath mean on Asgard?”

“Oaths are serious,” Thor replies. “On no conditions agree to make one with him.”

“What happens if you break it?”

The god looks him the eyes, suddenly grave. “You meet an excruciatingly painful death, as your blood itself rebels against you and burns you from the inside out.”

Right, okay, details he didn’t need to think about right now. “Then I’m pretty sure he’s not going to pull a fast one on us.”

Thor gives him a warily questioningly look, apparently not having been here to see that.

“Loki made a pretty airtight oath to not plot shit or hurt anyone. We’ve got it on tape, if you want to see.”

He nods, so Tony rewinds and hits play.

*

_“…I swear to make no attempt to circumvent, manipulate, cheat, or take advantage of these terms, until I am released either by you or death. I, Loki, theft-son of Odin and blood-son of Laufey, do vow by my lifeblood to honor this oath.”_

_The god runs the blade across his palm, letting the blood drip onto the floor with a finality that jars Tony all over again._

_“So mote it be.”_

*

Thor shakes his head. “He deceives you, friend.”

“Raikou say what now?”

“Loki is no son of Laufey, and that detail is enough to nullify the oath. You trust him too much.”

“So who’s his daddy, then?”

“I do not know,” the god admits, with less worry than Tony was expecting, “but I can assure you it is not that wretch. Loki is no jötunn caitiff.”

Wait, so he doesn’t know? Tony’s one hundred percent sure that Loki wasn’t bluffing during their talk in the hospital, when the god confessed his secrets in the dark, and some hidden part of him convinced him to make the oath to admit when those secrets threatened to overwhelm him.

_“I’ll hunt the monsters down and slay them all!”_

“Right then, Himmler, gonna go back down and chat with the goldfish.”

Steve suddenly looks up. “What about Himmler?”

“Goldfish?” Natasha asks, amused.

“Shut up, both of you, and don’t overanalyze the nicknames. I open my mouth and words come out. I’m gonna see what else I can get out of him, who knows. See ya!” Tony doesn’t bother waiting for permission, waltzing out of the room and back downstairs.

*

Loki is sprawled out on the floor, focused on spinning a knife in his right hand.

“Yo, Santa’s favorite reindeer, you taking a nap on me? Rude.”

The god turns his head, expressionless again. “Have they reached a verdict?”

“Well, mainly they want me to keep chatting you up until you spill your secrets and tell us how you’re going to blow up the base.”

He looks genuinely confused. “I made an unbreakable vow; did Thor not verify that oaths are life-binding?”

“No, he’s just not loving the wording.”

“Why not?”

“Says you’re not jötunn and so it’s null and void.”

The darkness in the god’s laugh makes Tony shiver. “Odin was too cowardly to admit his actions… why am I not surprised?”

Slipping the knife back into his boot, Loki sits up to face him. “It matters not—after all, I am the Liesmith. Believing me is of no great necessity.”

“What is?”

He shrugs, pulling his legs in to sit cross-legged on the white floor a couple inches from the glass. Dark drips and smudges of blood follow the path he’d been pacing when he’d first been (pretty literally) thrown into the cell. The wound in his side still bleeds, albeit at a far slower pace now. Asgardian healing definitely has its benefits, because while he’d been slowed, he kept fighting the whole time.

It makes sense, to an extent, if this is what Loki had predicted—of course he would go no-holds-barred when they came to find him, out of instinct alone if nothing else.

Loki’s hand twitches, and he shoves it into his coat pocket with a scowl before the anger falls from his face again to leave resignation in its wake. “I just don’t want to be alone. It’s too empty here.”

Oh, yeah. Void memories. Tony shivers at the thought, and leans sideways on the glass. “Sorry, I haven’t really had a clear head the past few hours; I didn’t think about that. I’ll stay.”

The god mirrors him, leaning on the other side so their shoulders would touch if the cell wasn’t there. “It’s alright, I understand. I don’t hold it against you.”

“Talk to me, Loki.”

He leans his head against the glass. “What of?”

“Don’t care. What you had for breakfast if you can’t think of anything, just talk to me.”

Loki sits quietly for a few minutes, thinking, and traces patterns on the floor to keep his free hand busy. “You wanted to know about the tallies.”

“Only if you can talk about it.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to say much, Stark, but I’ll try.” He runs fingers down his left arm, where Tony had seen them that night, and where they’re now hidden under his sleeve. “Have you ever read the eddas?”

“Thor told us they’re ninety-two percent bullshit, so no.”

“We aren’t allowed to read what is written of us until it has happened, even though it is mostly wrong, but I assume the story is there at least in part. I don’t know if I should tell you to read it or ask you to never pick it up.”

“I’ll go with the latter until you’re sure.”

“Or killed.”

“Stop it, Blitzen; you’re going to be fine.”

The god laughs emptily. “Optimism is one thing, but that is utter foolishness, idiot mortal.”

“Yeah, well, you’re an asshole.”

“I try.”

The words feel wrong in his mouth, because it feels like the end—some broken sentimentality. Tony’s not going to let Loki get dragged off if he can help it, but he’s still working out the details of his plan. They only get one shot, and he can’t risk wasting it.

“One tally a day, every day. Punishment and a personal reminder of what I caused, so I never forget. The days I missed because I was physically incapable to do so I made up for twofold.”

The asgardian sighs, and tilts his head up as though he’s steeling himself for the story. Tony wants to know, wants to understand what’s broken him so completely even after the invasion, but for the same reason he dreads it. Anything that painful to _Loki_ is not something he wants to think about.

“My youngest sons were killed as a punishment for my crimes.”

…fuck. Fuck, shit, son of a cock-loving whore, that’s–

His normal stream of thoughts descends into the mental equivalent of a keysmash.

It takes a minute for him to sort things out again.

“You– They– _What?”_

“Don’t make me repeat it,” the god says quietly, voice breaking halfway through. “I want to forget as much as I need to remember.”

“Loki…”

“I was never told who sanctioned it, but neither Thor nor the Allfather spoke against the Einherjars’ orders. I– I couldn’t scream, Stark. I had to watch in silence, my mouth sewn shut– they were _innocent!”_

“I don’t know what to say, Loki.”

The god shakes his head, a stray tear leaving a streak through the dirt on his cheek. “No, you’re here. Nobody has done that for me, and it’s enough.”

They both fall quiet, and Tony remembers why the god had asked him to stay in the first place. Without sight, and next to nothing to feel or hear, it must be a living hell for him to be trapped in there.

“Tell you what—I hate silence. Void stuff, you know.” This time it’s Loki that shivers when Tony speaks, and he feels bad for bringing it up, but the god had to already be thinking about it. Thus far Loki's been careful not to give the Avengers or SHIELD any confirmation that they know each other outside the battle—although they must at least have considered it by now, or think he’s a really great actor—so he doesn’t either. Getting him out will be easier if there’s less suspicion.

Tony pulls his phone from his pocket and searches through his extensive music collection (also known as every song uploaded to the internet at any point in time, because he’s Tony Stark) for something to play. “What the hell does Scandinavian fiddle sound like? I didn’t even realize that _existed,”_ he says, raising an eyebrow at the screen.

“I won’t ask how you stumbled across it,” the god replies, pulling himself back together a little, “but it’s just an iteration of what we brought your people centuries ago. It’s likely evolved since last I heard it, though. Play it?”

“Sure, why the hell not.” Tony taps on one of the tracks and turns the volume up a bit so that Loki can hear it through the glass (although considering his senses are like a fucking dog’s, he could probably hear it anyway).

“…I’m not sure whether to call that awesome or eerie.”

He barely catches it, but the god smiles. “What, the under-strings? If the tunes are not at least a tiny bit haunting, where’s the fun in that? Another.”

“Wow, someone’s demanding. Fine…”

About thirteen seconds into the song, Loki snickers, and by thirty he’s practically splitting his sides (which is unfortunate, because Tony’s already helped with the right one).

“You okay over there?”

The god looks up, holding back another laugh. “Fanitullen, am I correct?”

He checks the name. “Uh, yeah, why?”

“It’s mine,” he says, snickering again. “I may or may not have crashed a wedding party a few centuries back.”

“Story time, _now._ I so need to hear this.”

“To shorten, there was a wedding, and two boys decided to duel to the death. I can’t remember the reason, but it was likely silly. Meanwhile, I decided to have a little fun, because at that time Christianity had begun spreading through Scandinavia and we were being ignored.” He sniggers. “A fiddler came down to the cellar to fetch wine for the winner, and found me sitting on a casket and having a bit of fun improvising that song. When we heard the losing party fall, I gave him a bit of a scare and he thought me Satan. He ran like the devil was after him, but I just got a drink. It was good wine, too.”

Tony’s laughing now, too, because even considering the circumstances—or maybe because of them—it’s just such a Loki thing to do that it’s hilarious.

“The story has been warped a little over time, but if it has been preserved as well as the tune has, then it should be fairly accurate. I’m surprised the music is so similar, but then again, those of Scandinavia have not forgotten their heritage.”

“Okay, I’ll admit, I like that. Nice improv, by the way.”

“Of course you do; I am brilliant when it comes to mischief, and I’ve had a couple thousand years to learn—I had better be halfway proficient by now.”

“You are such a narcissistic asshole, you know that?”

“It is a talent of mine.”

The song continues to play quietly in the background, and they sit together in what could almost be considered peaceful were it not for the fact that Loki is imprisoned and scared out of his mind.

“So, the circumstances kind of sucked, but I have to say that knives aren’t half bad.”

“All is forgotten,” he says, shaking his head. “I was just as bad as you were, and it snapped me out of it enough that I can speak reasonably. And in English, as well, for that was going to slip if the fight had lasted much longer.”

“Yeah, well, I’d say no problem but it kind of was problematic.”

“I see you have found a new weapon, though—I think it could be considered effective. I approve of the change, because the suit is just bulky and annoying.”

“Hey! Don’t bash my awesome suit!”

“Oh, my _sincerest_ apologies, of _course_ your suit is wonderful.” Loki is smiling his rare, genuine smile, and it gives Tony hope again. Maybe things will be alright.

“You need anything in there?” The song in the background fades out.

The god tips his head towards him. “I want a hardingfele.”

“A hardy-whatty?”

He’s probably rolling his eyes under the glasses, knowing him. “Hardingfele. Hardanger fiddle. Scandinavian, eight strings, makes people think I’m the ultimate force of evil?”

“Dude. We’re in the middle of nowhere. I can’t just go grab you a snazzy fiddle.”.

Loki pouts. “You’re mean.”

“That’s not going to work on me, buddy. Sorry.”

He laughs. “If you can convince the good Director to allow it, I do believe I could settle for a drink… or twelve.”

“I kind of want to find out what sort of drunk you are, and kind of really don’t.”

“It just depends on the circumstances, really. I haven’t had too much at any given time in a while, because as of yet I’ve not yet found an effective spell to reverse the symptoms of a hangover. At least, none that don’t come with side effects just as bad.”

Tony chuckles at the mental image of a hungover god of mischief. He’s bad enough the times he’s tried to wake him up, and that _definitely_ wouldn’t help matters.

“Tell you what—I’ll go see if anyone’s got a stash of something good, and be right back. Sound like a plan?”

“Yes, of course.”

He feels bad leaving him, but the god could probably use a shot or two of something good.

When he stands, the god does as well, stretching his back and arms. “Thank you, Stark. For keeping me company and everything. I didn’t expect it.”

“Yeah, well, what are arch enemies for, if not sharing stories like teenage girls at a slumber party?”

Laughing, the asgardian raises an eyebrow. “I do believe that was rather one-sided. Perhaps next time you’ll tell me all your team’s darkest secrets, like why in the _Norns_ the blonde captain wears such a bizarre costume. Was he physically forced into it without choice, or is he just insane?”

“Oh, just wait until you hear about the time Fury told me, and I quote, ‘Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to exit the doughnut.’”

“I wait with bated breath for whatever ridiculousness prompted that.”

“I’ll tell you when I get back, it was hilarious. Gimme five.” He heads toward the north wing, thinking Clint might have beer somewhere, but the god stops him a few steps before he reaches the door.

“I– I’m sorry…” he says, pulling off his sunglasses, and gazing toward him desperately. “Please, don’t hate me.”

He turns, confused. “Sorry for what? The fight?”

“No, Tony,” the god replies sadly, shaking his head and letting his dagger fall into his hand. “I’m sorry for this.”

Loki turns the blade back on himself and drives it through his heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE'S MORE STORY I SWEAR  
> PUT DOWN THE PITCHFORKS  
> I'M TOO EVIL TO DIE YOUNG
> 
> Hardanger fiddle tunes (because they're awesome):  
> http://youtu.be/Di1F8GUvEtg  
> http://youtu.be/pZX0e65xMtw  
> http://youtu.be/DXYs9QXVMzI?t=1m55s


	28. Peace

" _LOKI-!”_

The god’s eyes widen in pain, agony written on his face that not even _his_ masks can cover, and Tony could swear for a moment his eyes flash green as he falls to his knees.

For a moment Tony can’t move, frozen in place as his mind tries and fails to process what’s happening.

He runs toward the cell and keys into SHIELD’s system to release the lock and open the door. Sinking to his knees behind Loki, Tony wraps his arms around him as the asgardian leans back heavily against his chest.

“Dammit, Rudolph, don’t do this to me,” he begs quietly as tears well up, “please…”

“don’t…” the god whispers, shifting one hand to rest over his. “‘s alright…”

“You can’t just give up!”

Loki drops his head back onto Tony’s shoulder and manages a quiet sigh. “please… don’ make me hate myself, l-let me go in peace…”

Tony nods, turning his left hand to twine their fingers together where they rest over his stomach, and runs his other hand through the god’s hair soothingly. Trying to hold back tears isn’t working very well.

“‘m sorry, please don’ hate me…” he begs, and coughs up blood.

“I don’t. I might not agree, but I understand, and I don’t hate you.”

This is so surreal, most of his mind just completely blocks out the possibility of it being real. On one hand he wants to scream at the world and beg for the asgardian to hold on, but he honestly doesn’t see a happy ending here. If the god wants peace, then he’ll give him that much. At this point it feels like all he can do.

Slowly, pale blue starts creeping up Loki’s arm and the god’s breath hitches. “n-no–!” He squeezes his eyes shut, expression more pained now, like he’s fighting whatever the change means. The color recedes, but only for a few moments before the god’s weakening strength isn’t enough to support his attempts. “no…” A tear escapes and runs down his cheek.

Tony wipes the blood from the god’s mouth with his sleeve, and tries to soothe him. “It’s alright… just breathe, Blitzen, stay with me.”

Loki turns his head away as the blue spreads up his neck and face. His breathing has gotten a lot shallower, although whether it’s from the injury or out of fear he can’t tell.

“Is this because you’re jötunn?” he asks quietly.

The god nods slightly. “m-monster…” For a brief moment crimson eyes meet his, and the hopelessness there shatters Tony’s heart.

“No. You’re _not_ a monster,” he says firmly, “you understand? I don’t care where you’re from, or what color your skin is. You’re awesome either way.” Tony holds back a sob, not wanting to make the god feel any guiltier than he already does, and speaks quietly enough that the cameras won’t pick it up. “Loki, you’re pretty much my best friend… you’re a good person, okay? _Not_ a monster, at all."

No. _That’s_ the expression that destroys his heart.

With a tiny, sad smile, Loki gently squeezes his hand and closes his eyes. “‘s alright, tony, i want this… ‘m not scared anymore.”

He looks more peaceful now—despite the pain etched on his face—than Tony’s ever seen him while he’s awake.

 

He can’t hold back a sob as the god wrenches the knife from his chest with a sigh of relief.

“thank y–…”

Without the blade to slow the process, Loki sinks into unconsciousness before he can finish the sentence.

*’*’*

 _Thank you, Tony,_ he wants to say. _Thank you for listening. Thank you for giving me a chance, for caring._

_Thank you for staying._

Black fades to grey before he can, though. He lets his body relax against the mortal and gives in peacefully.

*’*’*

Tony shouts abuse at the SHIELD paramedics for taking so fucking long (they’d showed up about the time Loki decided done was done and yanked the knife), because right now all he can feel is anger. At everyone, and everything, because this _wasn’t supposed to happen._ He’s still holding the god to his chest, clutching his hand, while they do their best work to at least delay the inevitable, and when Loki is lifted up out of his arms to be rushed to the emergency med wing he jumps to his feet and practically growls. “If he doesn’t survive, neither do you. Are we clear?”

“We’ll do the best we can.”

“Do _better.”_

The Avengers appear in the doorway looking various degrees of confused and freaked out, Fury close on their heels.

“We need to talk.”

Tony looks him over quickly, trying to judge his current mind-set, and nods. “I think we do, yeah.” Fury turns, and he follows him to some empty breakroom nearby.

The director turns back to him, arms crossed, and giving him the one-eyed suspicious look that would, were his emotional hard-drive not currently full, probably have made him uncomfortable.

Right now it just makes him pissed.

“I’m starting to think there’s something you’re not telling us,” Fury says in an infuriatingly even tone.

Normally he’d flop down into a chair or something at this point with a flippant remark, but he’s not letting the balance of power shift. “Now why does that sound familiar? Oh, right. Because you keep all your dirty secrets hidden until you try to nuke a fucking city.”

“You know that wasn’t us, Stark.”

“Doesn’t matter, I don’t care right now. I’m going to tell you how this plays out.”

“And how’s that?”

He crosses his arms, meeting Fury’s eyes and holding eye contact. It used to give him the creeps—not anymore. It’s probably the adrenaline. “First of all, this conversation never happened. This was just a chat about what I gleaned from Loki while I acted like his buddy. Only you and I know about it.”

The director raises an eyebrow. “Continue.”

“Loki gets full medical attention, not whatever half-assed shit you probably give people on your most-wanted list. Better than you’d even give your top agents—I’m rich; cost doesn’t matter.”

“Ignoring the fact that you sound seriously compromised, why should I agree to help the same man who’s tried to destroy the city twice?”

“Because,” Tony says, staring him down, “if anything happens to him, I will bring your world crashing down around you.”

Fury doesn’t seem as shaken at that as he should be, simply replying calmly, “I think you overestimate yourself, Stark. How exactly do you think that you can take down an entire government agency? That’s not the same thing as blasting your way out of a cave.”

“Oh, no.” He smiles. “It’s much easier. Are you trying to get me to give the whole bad-guy speech and reveal all my plans?”

“Are you the bad guy?”

“Considering I’m trying to save someone’s life and you’re sitting here wasting time, I don’t think so. Here’s the deal: if Loki doesn’t make it, I can make you find out just how little you’re getting from taxpayers’ dollars. I can wipe any and all of your domestic and offshore accounts clean of cash, I can expose all your secrets, and I can tell the world the truth about all the ways you’re breaking international treaties—all with literally a single word to Jarvis.

“There’s also the fact that if I want to, I can take down whatever’s connected to the internet within two minutes, anything with a computer chip in seven and a half, and everything—I mean _everything in the world—_ electronic in eleven.

“You shouldn’t be afraid of Loki, or Hydra, or the big bad wolf, Fury—you should be afraid of _me.”_

There.

That’s the hint fear he wanted to see.

Tony turns to leave, then pauses. “And don’t even think of trying to touch me, because Jarvis is always watching. Aren’t you, buddy?”

_”Of course, Sir.”_

The director glances up at the intercom system.

“Oh, yeah, forgot to tell you that I hacked your systems. _Again._ Seriously, at least make it a challenge for me next time; I’m getting bored. Anyway, Jarvis can easily fuck shit up if anything happens to me.” He smiles cruelly. “And if you tell _anyone_ about this conversation, or even hint that something’s wrong? The helicarrier drops out of the sky as dead weight.”

Without another word, he turns on his heel and leaves.

*

The moment he turns the corner off that hall, the anger drains into determination.

To be honest, what he said was made up of ninety percent lies—the internet thing he could do, although it’s impossible to do it that fast at this point because the wiring for a lot of shit is physically incapable of moving data that quickly. He can definitely fuck with their funding, but not enough to completely bring them down… Fury doesn’t know that, though, and has never been able to figure out how all his stuff works, so at least for the time being it should be enough to scare him into getting the best medical care available.

He heads for the emergency care section of the base—every SHIELD facility has one in case an agent is hurt too badly to make it directly to a proper facility, and it’s ten thousand times better than going to the ER in a public hospital. The doctors are specially trained, there’s no overcrowding, and their equipment is top-of-the-line.

Impatiently he waits outside the door, tapping his foot, until someone comes out. “What’s the scoop?”

The doctor shakes her head. “We’re doing what we can, but the chances of him surviving are pretty low. Even if he does make it through surgery, there’s a good chance he’ll be comatose. Possibly for the rest of his life.”

“He won’t be, he’s a fighter.”

“It’s not that easy, Mr. Stark. We have no idea what we’re dealing with—his physiology is fundamentally different than ours, and we don’t know if human blood would be compatible for a transfusion. Depending on how you define it, he’s already died twice. I won’t say there’s no chance, but it’s very, _very_ low,” she warns.

“I’m ninety-seven percent sure that if you stick our blood in him, he’ll end up with a pretty bad allergic reaction. I don’t have enough data to say for sure, but those aren’t great odds. How bad does he need it?”

“He’s lost a lot of blood, and the chances are pretty low he’ll make it without a donor. Even on autotransfusion he’s deteriorating pretty quickly”

Tony runs a hand through his hair, trying to focus enough to think things through. “There’s no way in hell we’re going to be able to track down a jötunn quick enough. I’ve got one other option, but zero way of knowing if his body will accept it. Give me some probabilities here, doc.”

“With a transfusion and a lot of luck figuring out his body as we go, maybe a six percent chance of survival.”

Shit. “Without?”

“One or two.”

“So it’s probably better to risk it, then?”

She shakes her head. “I honestly don’t know. If you decide you want to try, then we need it as soon as possible. Seconds count here.”

Tony nods. “Right. I’ll be back.” He takes off for the break room at a sprint.

*

The other four Avengers are sitting at a folding table covered in a well-worn red tablecloth that reminds him of Thor’s cape, and Fury is noticeably absent.

Speaking of the áss, though…

“Thor, buddy, need a hand real quick. You game?”

“Of course,” the blonde-haired god replies, standing.

Before they can make it past the vending machines by the door, Steve calls after him. “Stark, we need to talk.”

“Ah, yeah, how about _after_ I’m not covered in Loki’s blood?” He attributes the fact that he’s not having a panic attack right now to shock. What happened hasn’t sunk in yet.

“That’s exactly what we need to discuss,” Natasha responds, voice serious. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

Fuck everything, he hates life. “About what? I mean, I haven’t told you the specs for my suit, but there’s no way in hell you’re getting your claws on those.”

“About Loki. You two are awfully friendly, and now you’re pretty freaked out over his death. We need to know if you’ve been compromised.”

The anger is back, and it lights a fire in his chest. “Compromised? You’re worried about _me_ being _compromised?_ Fine, here’s the rundown: Loki likes me because I don’t take his shit, and I act like I care. That’s why it was so easy for me to get him to talk, because I’d already figured that out during the invasion. As for why I’m freaking out, was nobody watching the feed, or does just nobody care about the fact that a guy committed suicide?”

Screw the fact that they’ve been living together for months, even if some Hydra agent had done it he would have cared. Especially if they were as scared as the god was.

“You guys? You’re soldiers, warriors, assassins—you chose this shit. Me? I’m just some guy who crawled out of a cave with a magnet in my chest and suddenly got dragged into a war. So sorry that I can’t just sit back and watch people die without feeling anything, but I think it’s kind of funny how the guy in the metal suit is the only person here who _isn’t_ a robot.”

“Stark,” Clint tries to cut in, “he isn’t even huma–”

“Neither is Thor, does that change shit to you? Look, Loki’s an asshole, but he fucking _bled out in my arms._ I can’t handle that, okay? Loki’s a _person,_ you know, not just a fucking ‘he’. Let’s go, Thor.” He’s dragging the god by his cape out the door before any of them can get their jaws off the floor. Seriously, the fucking bastards have had it coming ever since Steve called Phil a soldier, and they shouldn’t be so surprised that he blew up at them.

Not stopping to chat, he interrogates Thor on the way to the med wing.

“Okay, seriously, did you really not know that Loki is Laufey’s kid?”

“I was never told of such a thing, no.”

Wow. Awesome Parenting 101. “I’m guessing you were watching the tape, though?”

“Aye.”

It’s all he can do to not just punch the áss in the face. Or stab him. Stabbing sounds fun.

Holy shit, he’s starting to sound like Loki. Although if this is what dealing with Thor was like for him, he can see why the trickster acts the way he does.

“Whatever happened to the whole ‘He’s my brother no matter what and i’ll never stop loving him’ gig? Where the hell were you when he was dying?”

The áss shuts his eyes with a sigh. “I didn’t know what to do. Every time I think that maybe I’ve finally found him, I lose him all over again. I was frozen in place.”

Oh. Okay, that’s not what he was expecting. Thor’s generally not the sort of guy who’s too scared to jump into the fray. And maybe he really _is_ broken up about what happened, even if he’s not showing it much.

“Important question time: now that you know Loki’s jötunn, do you still consider him your brother?”

“Always,” the god replies without hesitation.

“What would you do if I told you that he was still alive?”

His head snaps up from where he’d been staring ahead at the ground. “What?”

“It’s bad, Thor, and probability says he probably won’t make it. They’ve got him in surgery right now, but he knew what he was doing. He had damn good aim—that’s where you come in.”

“Anything I can do to aid in his survival, I will.”

“How would you feel about him actually becoming your blood brother?”

The thunder god looks confused. “By what means?”

“He’s lost way too much blood, and needs a transfusion. Trouble is, human blood isn’t compatible as far as we know, and I don’t think they have great cell signal on Jötunheim. We have no idea if yours would work, but it’s our best shot if you’re willing to donate a bit.”

“I know little of your medical practices,” Thor admits, “but if there’s a chance it would save him then I’m more than willing.”

“This is one of those times when the ‘thank god’ expression becomes literal.”

The expression he still can’t figure out returns—it’s not curious, exactly, or searching, but it always makes him feel like the god knows more than he lets on.

After a few minutes, his suspicions are confirmed.

“You were lying to the Avengers.”

“What?”

“About not seeing him between the chitauri invasion and today.”

Dammit, he was kind of hoping Thor wouldn’t catch on, at least for a little while longer until he’d figured shit out.

“I’ve suspected it for a couple of your months now. I wasn’t sure at first, but now I have little doubt that you know each other better than our friends think.”

“Okay, first off, _your_ friends. I don’t think I’ve become quite that buddy-buddy with you guys yet, considering that so far this is the first conversation I’ve had with one of you that hasn’t ended with me wanting to break something. What tipped you off?”

“At first it was your mannerisms—I believe you may have picked up a few of his. Your speech, too, although less so.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re a lot more perceptive than Blitzen makes you out to be. Or would you be Blitzen, since there’s the whole lightning connotation? Whatever, beside the point. Sorry. Do continue.”

The god laughs quietly. “See? Your phrases match his.”

“That’s a little freaky.” He waves. “Hey, Doc, found our donor. You set up?”

She’s changed into scrubs (dark red ones, which actually look kind of cool, for scrubs anyway), and judging from the mask he’s guessing she just came from surgery. “Yeah, come on in.”

The woman leads them into a room that is weirdly not cave-like for SHIELD, with cool grey walls and darker tile. There are a couple comfy-looking chairs around a coffee table, and she tells them to have a seat.

“Wait, is this a break room too?”

She nods, and he proceeds to complain about how for people saving the world, the team get treated like summer-camp kids. Throw ‘em some glittery construction paper and safety scissors, and they’ve got the whole package.

Thor seems both confused and intrigued by the whole thing, laughing when she asks if he has any problem with needles, and not even remotely squeamish with the whole thing. The doctor tells Tony that she’ll be back in ten minutes, unless something happens, and to keep an eye on Thor just in case. Having started the process and not able to rush through it, they go back to their previous conversation.

“Did he teach you to fight?”

Tony scowls. “More like threw me around the room and kicked me while I was down. The number of times he’s choked me unconscious can’t be good for my health.”

“He’s always believed in learning by experience.”

“I’ve gotten that. Still got bruises from last time.”

The god looks at him searchingly. “So when you were humming earlier…”

“Yeah, I heard it from him. Wasn’t paying as much attention as I should have been, considering you were in the room.”

*

He’s not handling this fantastically, and he knows it, but the uncertainty and inability to do anything is driving him up the wall. Well, not literally, because he’s sitting on the cold white tile in the cold white hallway thinking that he’s going to go insane from lack of visual stimulation. Working on company projects doesn’t help, and personal ones are impossible because he’s so distracted, so he’s essentially stuck here twiddling his thumbs until something happens. Please dear god let it be good news.

“Hey,” a voice says gently from his left.

Looking up he finds Steve, back in normal-people clothes and for once not looking at him like he’s a waste of perfectly good air. “Hey,” he replies dully.

It’s finally starting to sink in, what happened down in the cell, and he just feels numb.

Maybe if he had thought faster, put more work into things and not sat around on his ass like SHIELD would never find out; Loki wouldn’t be half running on machines right now. They could have gotten out okay.

Steve sits down beside him, crosslegged, and looks toward where the floor meets the wall opposite them. “I’m sorry, for how we reacted earlier. It was uncalled for.”

He nods.

“How are you holding up?”

“I–… Every time I look down, all I can see is his blood on my hands. Literally. I can’t bring myself to wash it off, though.” Tony stares at them where they rest on his lap. “I should have seen it. Thinking back, he kept showing signs that he was going to do it, kept talking like it was the end. Not in a going-back-to-Asgard sense. Like he was going to die on Earth. I should have stopped him.”

“I keep forgetting that you weren’t trained like we were,” he admits. “That you haven’t spent your life doing this.”

“Yeah.” It takes him a while find any other words, because everything is just blank. “…what if I’d just paid a little more attention, just thought a little faster? What if I could have talked him down?’

“Don’t think about the what-if’s, Stark. What’s done is done. All that does is make you feel worse.”

“Mhmm…”

He tries not to, he really does, but all he can do is keep running through scenarios in his head and finding dozens that probably could have worked if only he hadn’t been such an idiot. The silence is awful, but at least the captain seems to realize that talking won’t help much right now. Admittedly, it’s kind of nice to have the support, even if it’s Steve and they’re just sitting here—is that how Loki felt when they’d sit together after something had happened? He hopes it was at least this comforting, if not more so.

If this had been someone else in surgery, one of the Avengers or even one of his friends, Loki would know what to do. He always seemed to just _know._ Like the night he’d woken him up from the nightmare, and let him know that _finally_ he wasn’t alone in dealing with that. He hates that the god’s been through that trauma too, but at least together they have someone who can actually understand how scarred they are.

There are a couple stray drops of the stupid white paint on the stupid white linoleum from whenever the walls had been touched up, so he picks at them and flicks the chips across to the other side of the hall.

*

What feels like years later, one of the double doors swings out and the doctor who’s been talking with them returns. He climbs to his feet, desperate to know but also scared out of his mind that it’s all over.

“So?” he asks, although it’s mostly a demand.

“I have good news and bad news.”

Shit. That’s always bad. “Talk.”

“Well, the good news is that the blood was at least semi-compatible. His body didn’t handle it like a human’s would, but it’s seemed to take. Miraculously, it seemed to be enough to get him through surgery, but he’s still in critical condition. He definitely needs to stay on life-support, although we don’t have anything to compare his vitals to and have no idea what his baselines are. It’s a wonder he’s even made it this far—most people couldn’t have survived that. He managed to get the perfect angle in one go to do the most damage, although thankfully since he went between his ribs the knife couldn’t twist much without significant force.”

Tony is well aware that it wasn’t luck on the god’s part—he has enough experience and strength to know where to make an efficient kill.

Dreading the next question, he has to force it out. “…and the bad news?”

She wastes no time sugar-coating, which Tony is thankful for, because someone might have gotten strangled otherwise.

“He stopped breathing, twice, and the amount of damage he did is severe. It’s just a waiting game to see if we’ve been able to stabilize enough. You have to understand that while we’ve done the best we can, the likelihood of him waking up is almost nonexistent. You may wish to say your goodbyes, because he might not make it through the night.”

It’s hard to say which is worse—holding the god while he was dying, and doing everything he could to keep him alive afterwards, or knowing that he’s just barely holding on and there’s nothing he can do.

“Can I see him?”

A nod. “Be careful of the equipment, but you may go in.”

*

Whatever he’d been steeling himself for, it wasn’t this. To be honest, he’d been praying to whoever was listening that he’d go in and see if he could make the god smile again. Or at least talk to him.

A heart-rate monitor beeps consistently, too loud for the small room, and the ventilation unit hums in his peripheral as it feeds oxygen to aid the god’s breathing through a cannula. Blankets are pulled halfway up his stomach, not high enough to hide how his chest is swathed in bandages over both the initial wound and the incisions from god only knows what surgery they’d done. He doesn’t want to think too hard about that right now.

Two IV bags hang from a pole on the far side of the bed, the lines leading down to hypodermics taped to his forearm where the god’s knife once resided, and the sheer number of wires and devices in the corner, even though they’re not all being used, freaks him out majorly.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He should have seen the signs.

He should have stopped him.

Loki’s chest rises and falls shallowly, and his eyes are closed. Not that it doesn’t make sense, but he wants to talk to him, to try to figure out what to do.

The god’s skin never returned to its normal tone, staying jötunn blue and marked with raised, sweeping lines. Somehow the form still fits him, and Tony has a hard time understanding why the difference makes him a monster. The Nazi comparison is really the only thing that helps at all, but it’s still fucked up. Either way, Loki is beautiful and he refuses to consider him less a god because of his heritage.

This is all so fucked-up.

Half of him refuses to believe it’s real.

Being exceptionally careful not to knock anything, Tony lowers one of the rails and sits beside him on the bed, just watching him and trying to make sense of things.

“I’m so sorry, Loki…” He reaches up to brush a few stray hairs away from the god’s face. Tony doesn’t know when that motion became so natural to him, but it has, and he just needs some sort of familiarity right now. Pepper is across the country at a meeting in California, Happy with her, and Rhodey is in DC working on government shit. Bruce is somewhere in the middle-east last he heard, although he’s been keeping quiet and out of the way, so tracking him down would take time… the only other friend he has is living on borrowed time, comatose, beside him.

Supervillains he can do—beating people up is easy.

This is just terrifying.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, Donder, but if you are… please.” His voice breaks as he speaks quietly to Loki. “Please don’t give up, okay? I need someone to do science with, I need someone who can tear me down and show me my place when I start going overboard, and I need my friend back, dammit! So don’t you dare give up on me, because I swear to god I’ll drag you back from the dead just so I can kill you myself.”

*

He sits with the god until he can’t hold his eyes open, then pulls a chair over and sits like Loki did when it was Tony in the hospital, laying his head on the mattress.

Sleeping only works for a half hour or so before he wakes out of nightmares, and for the first time since the god had fallen unconscious in his arms, he breaks down into not-so-manly tears.


	29. Consultant

The nurses kick him out around six thirty in the morning. Tony hadn’t realized it had been so long, and isn’t happy with the prospect, but he hasn’t had more than a couple snacks around lunchtime from the old vending machine which only accepts exact change, but won’t take dollar bills or quarters anymore (that had ended in quite an adventure as he scrounged for dimes and nickels) and skipped dinner altogether, so he takes a shower and goes to find whatever passes for food in this hellhole.

He ends up in the cafeteria, hair still wet from the shower and not entirely awake, with a tray of what’s apparently breakfast but he doesn’t trust to actually be edible. Knowing SHIELD, it’s probably full of some experimental drug that’s ninety percent likely to give him an extra arm or something.

Oh well. If he eats something, it’s less likely that anyone will come bother him. Then again, people who are totally comfortable ignoring a god who made a fucking terrifyingly effective attempt at suicide probably won’t care that much if he skips a few meals. After a couple stomach-turning bites he gets up and goes to find something useful to do.

When he says useful, that ends up being sitting on the floor again feeling completely useless. He hates being out of control.

Finally the doctor he keeps running into lets him in (apparently her name is Morgan or Martha or something), and he curls up in the chair again with his tablet, wishing he could do more than get in the way.

Really, it’s not so much that he needs to be in here twenty-four-seven because he can’t bear to be away or some overdramatic shit, he’s just terrified that Loki’s going to get worse and he won’t be able to do anything if he’s across the base.

Is it healthy to blame himself so much for all of this? No, probably not at all, and he knows that, but it doesn’t stop him from doing it anyway. He feels responsible for what happened, because he was the only one who could have seen it coming. He was such a total idiot…

But Loki had made it through the night, right? At least that’s something, even if the entire thing is a train wreck of epic proportions. He rests his head on his good arm and takes a breath.

Fuck, he’s not handling this well…

He wants to call Pepper, or— Well, she’s really the only one, isn’t she? Happy knows he’s been living with the god, but as well-meaning as he may be, he’s not the sort of guy who’d be exceptionally helpful right now. And at the same time, what would he say? ‘Hi, Pepper, I fucked up and now Loki’s comatose in a SHIELD facility, how are you?’ Thor’s been in a weird mood, which he kind of gets but doesn’t really, and just…

The god had been on Earth for, what, six-ish months before they’d first run into each other? If he’d made any friends, though, he hasn’t really mentioned them. He saw the two kids at the park that one day, but that’s really it.

“Dammit, Loki, you just _had_ to be like me, didn’t you?” He sighs, tracing one of the markings that runs down onto the god’s hand. “Then again, I guess that’s why we get along.”

Still feeling like shit about everything, he rests his head on his arm again and just tries to stop thinking so much.

Melissa comes back in with a nurse a little later to change the bandages and check up on the god, but as much as Tony’s never been squeamish about that sort of stuff, he doesn’t want to see how bad things are. He turns away until they’re done. When Megan is leaving, he thinks of something.

“Hey, Miranda?”

“Michaela,” she corrects, but looks significantly less offended than the girls he used to pick up a few years ago.

“Yeah, sorry. Never been good with names. Anyway, what meds have you got him on, like, which painkillers?”

“Methadone for now—we’ll see what happens and if we need to change it down the road. Why?”

He runs a hand through his hair, remembering Christmas. “He had a bit of a morphine problem end of last year. He’s pretty sure it was just a dependency, and that’s probably most likely, but…”

“I’ll take it into consideration.”

“Thanks. I had to pull him off cold-turkey after he OD’d on that and sleeping pills, and it wasn’t pretty.”

“So this isn’t his first attempt, then?”

“The third that I know of. The first time screwed him over pretty damn badly, but that’s beside the point. Essentially, give him enough of an emotional overload and he’ll go for it. Effectively.”

She nods. “Does he have anyone else around? I know his brother is here, but he hasn’t come to see him.”

“Yeah, I have no idea what Thor’s up to with that whole deal. The blood was a no-brainer for him, but apparently actually being in the same room freaks him out. I have a theory on that, but I don’t want to think about it. Other than him and me? Not that I know of. At least, not on Earth, or that I’ve heard of anywhere else. One of my friends, maybe, but that’s really it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s the asshole’s own fault.”

“Still,” she says, “he’s lucky to have you. I’ve seen plenty of people who don’t have _anyone,_ or maybe a couple people who show up every once in a blue moon. Now, I’m not saying you should be in here all the time, because it’s not good for either of you, but he’s lucky to have someone.”

“I’m just worried it won’t be enough,” he admits, watching the god.

“I’m not going to give you the usual hospital bullshit, because half the time it just makes things worse, so I’ll skip straight to the point—it probably won’t be. Try not to get your hopes up, because I’ve seen people, when someone they cared about who was ninety-nine percent likely to not make it, put so much faith in that one percent and think that because it’s _their_ friend, or _their_ family member they’ll survive, end up crashing and burning when they die after all. Death doesn’t play favorites. Not to say that he definitely won’t survive, but realize that it’s just a waiting game now.”

“Yeah, I got it. Thanks.”

She goes, leaving him a chart on the counter that he doesn’t want to read. It’s the whole ignorance-is-bliss thing, he guesses, but he knows he’ll have to sooner or later.

A few minutes of thought and a glance over to the cabinet across the room remind him that, oh, they would have kept Loki's things. Probably in here, actually, in said cabinet because despite how paranoid SHIELD can get, they’re also huge idiots.

Sure enough, folded nice and neatly (which is hilarious considering how dirty and torn they are), his clothes sit on the eye-level shelf inside. To the left is the–… well, the knife. Not thinking about it, la-la-la-la-la… Yeah, okay, that doesn’t work. There’s also a nice pile of pretty much _every knife Loki has ever owned on Earth,_ which is even more than he’d realized, although taking into consideration the fact that the god had actively been looking for a fight it makes more sense. His boots are scuffed, which he feels like Loki probably won’t be happy about, considering how obsessively careful he is about keeping them in good condition. Not that he wouldn’t go stomping around in the mud if he wanted to, but he’d definitely make sure they were clean afterwards for reasons Tony can only guess at. Other than that is a small, worn scroll of parchment that looks like it’s been unrolled one time too many, a glass vial of god knows what, and what he was looking for: his phone. Bingo.

He’s curious about the scroll, but opening it feels like a violation of the god’s privacy. The deep red ribbon keeping it rolled stays in place, and Tony closes the cabinet to inspect his prize.

Not that this doesn’t edge into privacy-breaching territory, but it feels less personal than the scroll.

The screen lights up with a Stark Industries logo when he flips it so sighted mode, then switches to a slightly modified version of the OS he uses on his own phone. His finger hovers over the contacts button, but he can’t bring himself to do it. If Loki wakes up—no, _when_ Loki wakes up—he’ll have enough things to be mad about. Maybe later on, if the god doesn’t come back right away, but not now.

Life _sucks._

Why the hell is he even so worried, anyway? He wouldn’t freak out this much over Happy, or Bruce, or even Rhodey. Maybe Pepper… Stupid gods being stupid. He still can’t figure out what the hell Pepper’s been going on about, because he honestly doesn’t know what he is to Loki or what Loki is to him.

He’s just… Loki.

The god defies all logic and reason, on the complete opposite end of the spectrum from what he saw in the abyss. He’s an entirely different sort of incomprehensible.

He sinks into the grey chair by the bed, after turning it to face toward the headboard so he can kick his feet up on the nightstand thingy. No idea what they call it here, but it seems like the place people would put cards or flowers or whatever if they brought them. Granted, Loki probably wouldn’t take kindly to either, and it’s quite likely he’d just set them on fire for the fun of it.

With a tired sigh, he pulls up the drawings for the current arc reactor on his tablet, since he’s been trying to improve its efficiency and reduce the depth. Seriously, the damn thing took up a ridiculous amount of space—the reconstructive surgery he’d had to get it out took forever and a half, and he’s toast if Magneto ever comes around.

“You know, it’s really disconcerting for you to be both quiet and not glaring at me like you’ve got Superman laser eyes or whatever,” he comments, having to do a little weird maneuvering to do things one-handed. Apparently the cast is going to be hanging around another week or so… or more. It’s dumb.

The silence is deafening.

*

A week goes by with no real change—there are a couple scares with Loki, but that’s it. Waiting is driving Tony insane.

Loki had sat at his bedside (or beside him in the bed) every night for a week or so while he’d healed a couple scrapes and bruises, and damn it all to hell if he won’t do the same. He’s not sure if he would have stayed sane, otherwise, because there was _nothing_ to do.

The mattress has become his pillow, he grabbed a couple blankets from one of the bunks (the one the Avengers keep trying to get him to sleep in), and now he sleeps in the god’s room.

He keeps having nightmares that one of the machines will fail, or they just won’t be enough to keep Loki alive.

*

On the twenty-third of May—two and a half weeks since the god tried to take his life—those nightmares start coming true.

The life-support does its job, and everything is functioning, but Loki really did a number on himself. He wanted to die, and he made sure he would.

*

The god’s condition starts deteriorating quickly, and the doctor (who he’s just started calling M, much to her amusement, since he can never get her name right) says he has maybe a week left if they keep him on full life-support. She’s the only one of them who doesn’t beat around the bush, and he likes her for it. Might have to buy her a sports car or something when this is all over and Loki’s back on his feet.

Tony’s gone past numb and circled back around to snapping at any and everyone. There’s no way the team doesn’t _strongly_ suspect that there’s more to it than his poor civilian conscience, but honestly he’s beyond caring. He just wants this to all be over—and not in the death way.

When he finally gets the guts to call Pepper, she flies out (SHIELD really seems to like her, because she barely even got screened) to spend a couple days. He doesn’t talk much, but he doesn’t need to—she gets it, and is happy to help when she can.

She keeps giving him meaningful looks, but that’s the last thing he wants to focus on. He’s desperate, and he’s not thinking far past there.

Tony’s getting more and more worried that there’s nothing he can do. When he finally has an idea, he doesn’t like it, because the god could go at any time and he’ll have to leave to find out if it’ll work.

M promises to stay with him as much as possible, and make sure there’s always someone watching in case something happens.

It only helps ease the worry a little, but he flies toward New York nonetheless.

*

He raps three times on the huge wooden doors, stained dark—and actually a little menacing, knowing about the guy who lives here. When it swings open, he raises an eyebrow. Somebody seems to have finally gotten it through their thick skull that huge capes are more pretentious than impressive, opting instead for a slightly less ridiculous coat. Still red, though.

“Tony Stark, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he greets. “I’ll admit that I didn’t expect to see you. Do come in.” The man steps aside to allow him entrance.

It’s kind of a freaky place. Like, a TARDIS if you took out the science and threw in a bunch of candles and incense and shit. Not really his cup of coffee, but whatever. To each their own crazy house of weirdness.

“I assume you are not here for tea?”

“Not unless that tea’s pretty damn magical. I came to ask for a favor, actually.”

The man looks intrigued. “And what does a man like you seek out knowledge of the occult for?”

“Well, less knowledge,” he replies, poking at books and stuff on the shelves, “more rhymey finger wiggling stuff.”

“I must admit, that’s not a description of sorcery I have not heard used before.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Like I said, a favor would be awesome.”

“I wouldn’t touch that if I were–” the robed man tries to warn a little too late. Tony gets a faceful of smoke and tries to wave it away. “–you.”

“Shut up.”

“What would this favor entail?”

Tony sighs, not liking having to ask shit like this. He’s more the do-it-yourself sort of guy. “I’ve got a buddy who’s a mage, and not at peak health.”

“A mage? Who?”

“You know—ridiculously long black hair, 6’4”… Enjoys awful Icelandic comedies, Paganini, and long walks on the beach?”

“I can’t say I do, no. Mages are tricky for me to work with because of the way their powers are intertwined with their bodies.”

“What about a depowered one?”

“Their powers are bound?”

“No, powers gone completely. Ex-mage.”

He looks confused and intrigued, cocking his head slightly. “I was not aware such a thing was possible.”

“He wasn’t either, and he’s not happy about it. Long, not-so-happy story, and he doesn’t like to talk about it. So will you help me or not? Time’s kind’a of the essence on this one.”

After a moment’s consideration, the sorcerer nods. “Would you prefer to fly, or teleport?”

“Uggh, I hate magic… teleport, but _only_ this once. SHIELD facility’s out in western Nebraska, think you can swing it?”

“Of course.”

*

Teleportation is _not_ something Tony enjoys, at all. He feels like he’s been run through a blender. Twice.

“This way,” he points, finding his way back to the right entrance. The guards look skeptical.

“Buddy of mine, guys. Orders from the Director, if you want to call it in, but he’s kind of pissed right now because of exactly what we need this guy for. Besides, I’m Iron Man. It’s not like I’m sneaking villains in.” Just watching their near-lifeless bodies in hospital beds.

They must be new recruits, because they nod instead of asking Fury. Works for him. He leads the man into the base, only stopping briefly to step out of the suit, then into the ICU. Surprisingly, there’s a blonde-haired super-soldier sitting in the chair beside the bed, sketching on the back of scrap paper with a cheap ballpoint pen he must have found in one of the drawers. He glances up when they enter.

“Stark,” he greets. “We were wondering where you’d flown off to. Who’s your friend?”

“Steve, meet Stephen. Stephen, Steve,” he introduces them briefly. “How’s he doing?”

“Had a bit of a scare with blood loss earlier—Thor’s is working to an extent, but not long-term. Michaela thinks his body is able to use it to an extent for a little while, but essentially once it’s in his system for a time it becomes inert and is being metabolized since it’s useless. He’s on another transfusion, and it’s helping a bit.”

“Gotcha. Thanks for keeping an eye on him.”

Steve nods and stands up. “Of course. Need me for anything else?”

“Nah, not right now. I’ll probably end up in the cafeteria trying to find something edible later, if this goes well.”

“Alright, see you then.” He waves and leaves.

The sorcerer walks to the bed, surveying the wounded god’s body. “You didn't tell me it was Loki you spoke of.”

“Couldn’t risk the chances of you not coming, Doc. Would you have teleported us over right away if I had?”

“I suppose you have a fair point. However, nor did you say he was comatose.”

“Yeah, well, I’m short on time, like I said. Assumed you were smart enough to figure that one out on your own—after all, weren’t you a surgeon?”

“Neurosurgeon, yes. He is not in good condition.”

 _”Really?_ he says with more sarcasm than is probably necessary, “I never would have guessed!”

The man just shoots him an unimpressed look. “Can you tell me what happened? It will make things easier if I know the circumstances and injuries.”

Tony sighs, sick of having to tell people and making this any worse on Loki when he wakes. Strange has a point, though (and schmancy voodoo powers), so he doesn’t have much choice if he wants to give the god a chance.

“Okay, look. To keep it short—and it’d be great if you don’t talk about it with anyone, because I kind of want to keep it on the downlow until he can make the choice himself as to who he wants to tell—he’s suicidal. Has been for at least a few years, and when he goes for it, he doesn’t take any chances of survival. SHIELD caught him a little while ago and he was going to be taken back to Asgard, where he’d be either tortured, executed, or both, and he was scared enough to run a knife through his chest. We’ve barely managed to keep him alive, and I think it’s pretty obvious from all the machinery and tubes and shit that he’s not doing well. We’ve got to get his heart back in working condition and his mind back up and running. Was kind of hoping you could help with that part, since you’ve done Jedi mind tricks before and everything.”

The sorcerer thinks it over for a minute, then nods. “I’ll see what I can do, but I can make no promises. He’ll have to want to come back, at least to some extent—I can’t force that.”

“Trust me, some part of him wants to live. He came to me for help a week before all this happened because he had promised to, even though it made him uncomfortable. There’s at least a spark in there.”

“I’ll need you to leave while I work. This takes a great amount of concentration, and if something backfires you could get hurt.”

“Wait, this shit can backfire?”

“All magic can; it is a risk we take. Such things are unlikely, though. Go eat, if you need to, because this will take time.”

He doesn’t know Doctor Strange well, and it makes him a bit uncomfortable to leave right now, but a lot of his superhero acquaintances would vouch for the guy. It’s not like there’s much of a choice. If they were going on borrowed time before, they’re begging and purse-snatching for it now.

Tony takes Loki’s hand, tracing the markings with his thumb, and speaks quietly. “Hold on, Rudolph. You’re strong enough, so don’t you dare give up on me, you hear? You’ll wake up if I have to drag you back kicking and screaming.” He squeezes his hand gently and smiles sadly down at him. “Just hold on, okay? I’ll be back when I can.”

Without a word to the sorcerer (or making eye-contact for that matter), he heads back down the overly-clean hall to his bunk. Exhausted, he falls asleep within minutes.

*

Tony wakes to a hand on his back, which for half a second he thinks is Loki’s before the memories come flooding back. Memories of false laughter, the flash of metal, and crimson streaks of blood.

Instead, he finds Steve with a tray of food.

“You were mysteriously missing from the past two meals, I figured you could use something to eat.”

He rubs his face, trying to wake up, and shakes his head. “Has it been that long? I’m not hungry. Thanks, though.”

Steve pulls a folding chair out from against the wall and sits backwards facing him, arms resting on the back of it. “This isn’t the first time you’ve seen him since the battle, is it?”

With a sigh, Tony decides it doesn’t really matter anymore—he just wants the asshole to live. “No, it’s not,” he admits.

“How long has it been?”

“Don’t know, exactly. Ran into him last fall, so…” he does the math, “seven or eight months?”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

Steve seems to be taking this remarkably well, sounding like he’s not just outright accusing him, which is unexpected. Could be a trick, but like he said—he’s pretty much done with caring. “I was going to, but he didn’t seem like a threat. He was living his life, I was living mine, and every once in a while we’d run into each other at the coffee shop or in Central Park. I figured I’d try and see if he was up to something and then call SHIELD, but it kind of became normal and I decided not to. Dunno.”

Tony spins the god’s phone in his hand absentmindedly. It’s not like the guy’ll make the connection, since it just looks like another phone. Even if he turns it on, nobody seems to have realized Loki’s blind yet.

“He trusts you, though.”

“Not a hundred percent on that one—he’s not the sort of guy to consistently do _anything.”_ After a moment of thought, he adds, _“I_ trust _him,_ though. Have ever since around New Year’s.”

“Why? What happened on New Year’s?”

He shrugs. “Long story, starting one day when we ran into each other at the coffee shop, and ending around the time he stopped sleeping on the couch and figured out that beds are way comfier.”

Now Steve just seems confused, and were it not for his generally shitty mood he might have laughed. “Oh, didn’t I mention? He’s been living in the tower with me for, like, five months now. His room’s right down the hall from mine. You would not _believe_ how picky he is about food, although he seems to be slowly acclimatizing, because I can now buy normal bread and cereal without him complaining. Well, complaining too much, he’s still a total asshole.”

Thankfully, the questions don’t get very invasive, and he’s guessing the super-soldier gets that he’s not going to get too in-depth right now. He does, however, ask the same question _everyone_ else keeps asking.

“You really care about him, don’t you?”

Saved by a fantastic interruption when a red-clad sorcerer opens the door, he jumps at the opportunities to both avoid the question, and to hear the news.

“So… is he awake?”

The man looks down, and his stomach drops.

“Please say he’s awake.”

“He’s not, I’m sorry—I might be able to lead him back, but not until his body is healthy enough to support him. Were he to awaken now, he would panic and the stress could kill him.”

“So tell me what to do; don’t just stand around being useless,” Tony demands with a scowl, now pissed about the hopelessness of this whole thing.

Strange sighs, fixing how his belt lies. “His heart is barely able to function even with the machinery supporting it—he simply doesn’t have the energy in the right points of his body. He’d need another surgery at the very least, and it would be incredibly dangerous.”

He swears colorfully, a few of Loki’s curses slipping in by mistake, just making him feel worse.

“Talk to me, Doc. I want as much info as you’ve got.”

*

_”Hello?”_

“Hey, Pep, it’s me.” He know he sounds tired, but hopefully she’ll ignore it. He’s heading back towards numb again.

_”How’re you holding up? Everything alright?”_

Tony sighs. “He’s getting worse. If we don’t do something in the next few days…”

 _”I’m so sorry, Tony.”_ And she really does sound it.

He didn’t call just to chat, though.

“Pep, if you had a way that might save his life, but that he’d probably hate you for—and I mean really, irrevocably hate—do you think it would be worth it? To put him through that, only to probably have him want to die again?”

 _”I don’t know. I’d need more details, and even then I can’t say for sure. I don’t know him as well as you do.”_  

“Well, here’s what I have in mind—…”

He explains his thoughts, all the different ways things could play out, and waits for a while before she answers.

_”We’re different people, obviously, but if you think you can help him get back on his feet afterwards, then I think it might work. It will definitely be hard on both of you, but it might keep him alive if you’re both incredibly lucky.”_

“Thanks, seriously. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

_“Probably end up scrounging for pennies on street corners.”_

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”


	30. Rhythm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this wasn't up yesterday, I ended up trapped on YouTube watching videos on ECG rhythms and the different methods of heart surgery. Really cool, confusing stuff, but not good for being productive. Enjoy!

“I can’t do it, Pepper.”

“Stop being such a wuss and get it over with. You’re not doing anyone any favors by putting it off, and you and I both know that his chances are just going to get worse the longer you do.”

“But–”

“Tony.” She gives him the scary death-glare of doom, and he really can’t argue with that.

With a nod, he squeezes the god’s hand. “Sorry in advance, Loki, because you’re going to hate me for this. I mean, you’re going to hate me anyway, but a lot more now…”

Tony stands and goes to talk with M-what’s-her-face and the other surgeons.

*

“How you holding up, Goldilocks?”

Loki’s been in surgery for what feels like forever, and he knows how slim the chances are. Like, less than one percent, if they’re lucky. Tony’s freaking out and got kicked out of the break room by Natasha because he couldn’t stop pacing.

The god sighs. “In honesty, I do not know. I care greatly for my brother, but the knowledge of his heritage goes against everything I was taught. It is difficult.”

“Dude, he’s the exact same person, just blue. I mean, a little crazier than when you guys were prancing around Asgard, from what I’ve heard, but he’s still Loki.”

“It is like I no longer know him.”

“You probably don’t,” Tony says. “Actually, you definitely don’t. The stuff he saw? You don’t recover from that. Ever. It changes you, and everyone keeps going on with their lives like normal, but you’re constantly haunted by things that you can’t understand. And I mean that totally literally—they don’t obey the laws of nature, or of science, or anything. They shouldn’t exist, _can’t_ exist, but they… out there, they do. It fucks you up, _permanently._ I was there for, what, a minute or two? He was out there for _years,_ Thor. The fact that he’s alive is a fucking miracle, and to be honest I have no idea how he still functions, let alone as sanely as he does.”

He can’t hold back a shudder, the memory suddenly too strong, and takes a breath to calm himself. The thought of being there so long sends a jolt of fear through him, and it’s only with a great deal of effort that he steps back from it and avoids a panic attack.

The god looks confused and concerned.

“You have no idea what it does to you, Thor; you have to accept that. The man in there? He’s not the same guy you grew up with. Sorry to break it to you. Loki’s definitely still Loki, but to say he was torn in two out there would be the understatement of the century. He’s a book ripped from its binding, dipped in turpentine, and tossed into the furnace of the realms as kindling. You have to meet him all over again, because as much as he is the same, he’s been changed. Rewritten. A piece of faulty code that glitches the whole system by mistake.”

“That will be no easy task.”

“Nope. Which is why he might actually give you a chance if you put in the effort.”

Thor sighs and stares at his folded hands, lost in thought.

“Oh,” Tony adds after a minute. “It might be better if you don’t mention the whole jötunn thing. Just act like everything’s normal, because in that regard it is. He’s just a little blue, da ba dee da ba die…”

*

“Mister Stark,” comes a familiar voice, and his head snaps up.

At the same time, his stomach drops in fear.

“Get to the point,” he snaps, and she nods curtly.

“It didn’t go well–”

“Fuck no, he’s _not_ dead!”

“I didn’t say he was.”

What?

“As I was saying, it didn’t go well—the longer he’s running on transfusions, the quicker his body is processing them, and he really did a number on his heart,” M explains. “We managed to repair it to a degree, but it quickly became clear that it wouldn’t be enough. Your offered aid became necessary. His body didn’t take it well, which is why the operation took so long, but I believe—and this is only a guess—that he’ll adapt to the change and live.”

Tony lets out a sigh of relief. “How’s he doing right now?”

“He’s in post-op at the moment, but we’re going to move him back into his room in a few minutes. We still can’t say for sure if he’ll wake up, so there’s no point in keeping him under observation here as opposed to there. I assume you want to see him?”

“Yeah,” he says with a laugh, the air no longer feeling quite so suffocating.

“And you, Mister Odinson?”

“No… I think I’ll wait outside. He wouldn’t want to see me right now.”

*

The god looks worse off now than he did before, which is saying something, but he’s alive. His heartbeat is stronger and more consistent, and that will help a thousand-fold.

Doc Strange has stuff to do elsewhere, which he gets; he says he’ll be back in a week or so when Loki is in better shape.

After how scared he was (and he really needs to figure out why that keeps happening, because it’s distinctly un-Tony behavior), he doesn’t think twice about sleeping in the ICU again. With his knees tucked beneath him, he lays his head in his arms on the bed. They’ve finally let him take the cast off, which is awesome. He feels more useful now.

Half-sitting, half-lying there in the relative darkness (excluding the monitors and power lights scattered around), he looks up at the white-blue glow, which filters through the gauze taped the god’s chest. It was the only way to keep Loki’s heart beating strongly enough to take him off some of the machines in a week or two, once everything heals sufficiently and his body accepts the changes… but still.

Loki is going to kill him. Probably literally.

Not to mention resent him for the rest of his life, because looking through his phone like he’d been thinking about is _nothing_ compared to cutting through his sternum in order to implant a device he didn’t ask for in his chest.

He knows first-hand what it’s like to wake up like that—afraid, confused, and in pain—and he doesn’t wish it on Loki at all. But at the same time… the idea of the god actually dying is something he can’t wrap his head around. Loki started out as a variable, definitely. Now he’s become a constant. An irrational one—maybe tau, or e, or something—but a constant nonetheless. Some mornings when he gets up, the god is already perched on a barstool having breakfast while he loses himself in a book. Currently, he’s been working his way through _The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_ , which means getting to watch some really hilarious expressions as he swings between laughter, intrigue, and serious concern for the human race. He likes the days like that, because there’s nothing in particular to worry about. They can just _be,_ if that makes sense. Just sit around and enjoy the awesomeness of being alive. He’s resigned himself to the fact that it might not happen again—Hell, the chances of the god even staying in the tower are slim to none.

Tony still doesn’t regret the decision.

It hurts to see coming, though.

Not being able to help Loki drives him up the wall—he’s _right there,_ and there’s nothing he can do but wait and hope. Having run out of half-finished projects (that he can do remotely) a week or so ago, there’s not really _anything_ to do, and as much as he likes the god, he’s not especially entertaining while comatose. For a time he skims over information on Old Norse, until Steve comes in with a deck of cards and reminds him that Tony still owes him a game.

That game, a rather extended round of War, turns into a bit of a poker tournament when Natasha, then Clint show up, and it alls goes downhill straight into a pool of mayhem from there. Tony gets accused of stacking the deck (which he did _not,_ thank you very much, he only does that to screw with the god because it’s hilarious, although it usually ends with salt in the sugar or some other stupid prank), but gets his payback when he catches Clint and Natasha cheating. In the meantime, Steve has ignored the chaos altogether and wins the game. It’s a surprisingly even match-up—Steve played back in the army, the assassins play for fun and on missions, and Tony? Well, he used to spend plenty of time in Vegas.

Contrary to what he’d assumed when the assassins first showed up in the room, it’s possibly one of the longest periods the four have gotten along outside of fighting bad guys, despite the fact that their supposed arch-enemy is in the room. He even manages to drag Thor in afterwards, although that ends in some really uncomfortable silence as he stares at his brother.

“He’s…” the god seems lost for words, obviously having some form of internal struggle.

“A Na’vi? I mean, if you took away the ears, and nose, and tail, added a finger or two, and made ‘em a little less gangly? Okay, so essentially that he’s on the bluer end of the skin spectrum. Whatever. You know what I mean.”

Thor just looks confused, and more than one of the other Avengers raise an eyebrow or snicker.

“Avatar? No? Oh shut up, I tried. Dude, he’s just blue. C’mon, I’ll deal you in.”

“I feel like there’s something I’m missing here,” Steve comments, moving over so there’s space for another chair around the nightstand-footrest-desk-card table thingy. He still doesn’t know what to call it, it’s multipurpose.

After a minute Thor seems to snap out of it a bit, and sits down. “He is of Jötunheim…” the god says as though he’s still trying to process.

“Right. Asgardian history crash-course, courtesy of the incredible Tony Stark with a little info gleaned from chats with Sparky over here. Okay, maybe a lot. Like the whole thing. Whatever.” He deals out a new hand, and tosses Thor a handful of chocolate coins. Apparently Clint’s been holding out on them, because he has a whole stash of candy, booze, and coffee (the semi-drinkable stuff, not the normal crap SHIELD’s got out here in the middle of nowhere) hidden away god-knows-where, and it’s become a pretty intense fight to win them.

“So essentially, Odin Alldaddy is the inter-planetary Hitler, the Æsir are Nazis, and the Jötnar are Jews. Now, Thor and Loki—actually, I don’t want to explain any of the poker variants, let’s just play BS—are Hitlers little protégés who are being groomed to be the next dictator and go out and slay all the awful Jews, etcetera, etcetera. Now imagine that the day that Thor’s gonna be crowned king-dictator whatever, a couple sneaky Jews get in and try to steal something that could give them a little more of a chance, and Thor, Loki, and their buddies prance off to chase them down like a good ol’ manhunt.”

“What are Nazis?”

“Is this what the Himmler reference was about?”

“Thor, I’ll explain later. And yeah, Steve, just go with it for now. Anyway, while they’re killing all the nasty Jews Loki accidentally finds out that, oh, hey! He’s actually the kidnapped son of the Jewish leader dude! Cue emotional breakdown, lots of angst, and general bad shit happening.That’s essentially the rundown of this whole thing Thor’s freaking out about like a teenage girl, if you scale it up to a slightly larger scale. Hey, no no no, I call bullshit-!”

“Too late, Clint took his turn,” Natasha smirks, and looks him in the eye. “Peanut butter.”

He throws a coin at her in revenge, although it kind of backfires since she just unwraps and eats the chocolate, then throws the crumpled gold foil back at him.

“So… Thor’s a Nazi?” Steve verifies.

“A well-meaning Nazi. Also a Nazi who’s very emotionally conflicted as to his Jewish-Nazi not-brother.”

“That’s really confusing and makes a lot of sense at the same time.”

“Yep. Two kings.”

The soldier raises an eyebrow. “Do I even need to call bullshit, or is it so obvious that everyone already knows? Pick up the cards, Stark.”

“Dammit.”

Natasha slaps a few cards onto the deck. “Three aces.”

“No, it’s Thor’s turn!”

“It’s called Cheat, Stark, I can steal the turn if I want to.”

Thor glances around the table and shrugs. “It’s not an issue.”

Another pass ‘round explains why the god had so little problem with it, because he grins and lays down his cards. “Four sevens.”

“Oh, you asshole.”

He just smiles and waits until Clint takes his turn. “What is it we’re saying when we lie? Peanut butter?”

“Wait a sec, there’s no way you could cheat on that! Who’s got the other four?”

“I believe you do,” Thor replies with a laugh. “You haven’t looked through your hand very carefully.”

Sure enough, on closer inspection he finds not one but _three_ fours. “What the hell did you play, then?”

The god turns over six cards, none of them the number he was supposed to play.

“How the _hell_ did nobody catch you on that? Natasha, you’re supposed to be all super-assassin-ninja!”

“Growing up with Loki, one must learn to win games somehow, although most turned into more complications of this—seeing who was capable of cheating more without getting caught.”

Tony scowls. “God dammit, stupid reindeer!”

“Goat,” Thor comments, “not reindeer.”

“What?”

“His helmet—they’re horns, not antlers. Although I’ve found cow to be just as suiting, considering how bullheaded he can be.”

He breaks down laughing. “Oh my god, this just got so much better. Someone call Life Alert, help, I can’t breathe!”

“That’s not how Life Alert works, Stark,” Clint chips in, “and I’m not calling an ambulance. I guess I can put you on the phone with the salespeople, though. I’m sure they’d love to sell you one of the pendant things. Give me your tablet, I’ll hook you up.”

“You really don’t want to do that, Stark. Every ad on every website will be the exact same yellow Life Alert one with the woman who’s fallen, in every size, for the next decade of your life,” Natasha warns.

“Why does it sound like you know from experience?”

She scowls. “Long story.”

*

_”’m sorry, please don’ hate me…”_

The god’s words echo in his head as he speaks the same back to him now. “I’m sorry, Loki, please don’t hate me for this… just let me give you another chance, okay?”

A shadow falls over him as the hall light is blocked by the man he’s been waiting for. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah, ‘course. You want me in here, or out in the hall again?”

“Whatever you think best, though he may wake with less fear to a familiar presence.” The sorcerer sits on the edge of the bed, hands hovering on either side of the god’s head. “If you choose to remain, I would advise you to be quiet and still—this is delicate work, as even the farthest depths of his subconscious fight heavily against any presence even close nearby. His mental control is incredible, but it makes for far more difficulty in bringing him back.”

Tony nods and leans against the wall, watching silently as the man closes his eyes and falls silent.

*

Strange jerks back, expression pained, making Tony jump.

“You okay?”

The sorcerer nods, rubbing his temples. “He is… _difficult_ to work with.”

“But it worked, right?”

“It’s not black and white, so the rest is up to him, but the pathway has been set.”

Tony sighs in relief. “Thanks. Seriously, I owe you one.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, between the two of them. “Would you prefer to have time alone while he wakes? It may not be immediate, but within the next ten minutes if he does.”

“…and if not?”

“Then he’ll remain in a coma until his body shuts down, either by itself or life support being stopped.”

With a shudder, he takes a seat where the sorcerer had been perched a minute earlier, and looks down at the god. “Probably best if you’re not here—he likes to break bones when he freaks out.”

“You sound like you know from experience.”

Tony points to his left side. “Pretty sure between my jaw, my arm, and the surgery for my chest, I’m half cyborg by now.”

Strange raises an eyebrow as he walks toward the door. “I’ll give you some space, then. Do try not to get severely maimed.”

“No promises.”

Those ten minutes are the longest ten of his life, as he waits for the god to wake. Because he _is_ going to.

They drag on, marked by the steady, quiet tick of a clock across the room and the now-familiar beep of the ECG in the background. It’s softer after he asked about getting it turned down, just another marker of time now that his heart’s evened out, although the rhythm is fairly different than a human’s would be. Still the quick lines of the electric aid, but the polarization looks wacky as hell. They tried it out on Thor and his is more similar to Loki’s, pointing to the possibility that it’s likely his natural rhythm, but it’s still weird to see. Not to say that it’s definitely being measured right, either, because like before, their bodies are structured a bit differently (and the whole tissue-density issue apparently makes it damn hard to operate on them, too).

Ten minutes pass, then twelve, then seventeen… there’s no response from the god.

*

“Loki?”

_No, nononono…_

Tony runs a hand gently through the god’s hair, trying not to tear up, because they did _not_ come this far only for him to die now.

“C’mon, you asshole. Don’t you dare. Don’t you _dare,_ you hear me?”

He rests his forehead against Loki’s, eyes closed.

“Please, Rudolph…”

Nothing, not even a flicker of awareness or life.

He sits back, holding his hand and crying quietly.

Six minutes later, the god flatlines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, stash the blowtorches back in your rucksacks, don't kill me yet. I promise, things will get better. Are we good? Good.


	31. Prayer

Tony Stark has slain gods and met demons, fought creatures who could rearrange matter and others who created objects from seemingly nothing. He’s seen everything, and nothing, and things that can’t be yet still are—the list goes on. Yet in all this time, not since he was very young and his mother would take him to church on Sundays, has he ever believed in a higher power. At least not in that respect. He sees high-powered guys every day and beats them into the ground in a metal suit.

Be that as it may, now he bows his head (that’s what people do, right?) and prays to anyone who’s listening. _Begs_ for a miracle, for help, for _something._

*

It’s not _fair!_

A month, an entire _month_ of doing anything and everything, of being the reason the Avengers have had to be based out of this out-of-the-way hellhole, of keeping Fury and the rest of SHIELD in check with threats and glares, and all of it for _nothing?_

Tony’s head is _killing_ him. He just wants to lay down and sleep for a year or two, to try and forget about all of this.

The realization that it’s over—that eight months of insane life with the god have ended like this and the god is gone—slowly sinks in. It’s like everything he felt when Loki had first sunk back into his arms and let go times a thousand. Grief, and confusion, and pain, and numbness, and _rage._

He shouts in anger, and maybe it’s irrational and not how he’d usually behave at all, but out of all the people he’s lost (and the number is higher than it should be), this is the worst. Maybe it’s because they lived together, or because he should have stopped it, or because he watched the whole thing. Maybe it was the suicide note he’d gotten an hour after the god had bled out in his arms, which he watched a quarter of and couldn’t finish. Maybe it was because he realized it hadn’t been a spur-of-the-moment thing, and that when Loki had planned for the attack he’d planned for his death as well. Maybe it’s because he understands.

There’s another sharp pang and he rubs his temples, wishing for this to all be over… except he doesn’t know what that means. Loki is dead, it’s _already_ over. The only other over he can think of is dying himself, but he is not pulling any Romeo and Juliet shit—that’s not what he wants, anyway. He just wants everything to rewind. This hurts too much.

“Loki, you _fucking asshole.”_

Tony runs a hand through his hair, trying to calm down, but it’s just so fucking _wrong._ Loki’s supposed to be a god. Immortal. Not dead by his own hand.

Something icy claws at his mind.

*

He doesn’t realize he was unconscious until he’s slowly blinking awake again, and everything is a little hazy.

There’s a quiet groan, and why the hell is his head so fuzzy? It still hurts…  wherever he is, it’s kind of uncomfortable, but moving doesn’t sound fun. Did he get drunk, or something? He doesn’t remember getting drunk. This feels like the hangover of the century, though, so he decides to just wait it out.

His bed seems to have other ideas, because it shifts a little and there’s another sound. Ugh, just make it _stop._

Tony moans.

For a moment, he suddenly feels inexplicably angry, then scared, then it vanishes. The fuck? There are a couple more flashes of emotions that don’t have any rational cause, and he tries to sit up, but it’s not as easy as he’d hoped since his head is spinning a little. Or a lot. Even when he manages it, he feels kind of dizzy.

After a minute, the memories slowly start filtering back—the blood, and desperation, and the dreaded tone of the ECG. The one that’s still playing constantly in the background, although no one else has come.

There’s another pained whine, and he squints up toward the god. “Loki?” Another stream of emotions leaves him reeling. When he can finally see straight again, he sighs in more complete relief than he’s felt in a long time. Slowly— _very_ slowly—but surely, the god’s chest rises and falls with each breath.

Loki whimpers quietly, and fear registers in the corner of his mind as the god’s scarred eyelids close just the tiniest bit tighter. He brushes fingers over the trickster’s cheek lightly.

“Hey, shh… it’s alright, Loki…”

A moan is his response.

It takes a little while before grey eyes slowly open, searching for something Tony knows he won’t find thanks to the blindness.

“Hva–?”

Yep. English not rebooted yet. He so called it. It takes a second, but he manages to call up some of what he’d gleaned from the wonderful bounty of the internet.

“Það er allt í lagi, Loki, bara anda.”

_It’s alright, Loki, just breathe._

The god is tense, pain etched on his features, and digs his nails into the mattress. “F-Fá út! Fá út úr höfðinu á mér!” His voice is strained and scared.

_Get out of my head!_

“I’m not–”

“Fá út!”

“Loki–” He runs a hand over his face, trying to calm down and focus. “Loki, anda. Róa sig niður, ert þú að fara að gera hlutina verri.”

_Breathe, calm down—you’re going to make things worse._

What? He had too much time on his hands! Yeah, he’s probably massively butchering the pronunciation, but the god seems to understand to an extent and stops hyperventilating at least, shivering.

“Hrædd…”

_Scared…_

“I know, Loki, I know…” Tony takes his hand gently and tries to calm him, but it’s only slightly helpful.

The asgardian is obviously in agony, which, as usual, is scary. He knows how much pain medication he’s on, and what they’ve deemed a safe amount, so he gets up for a moment to raise the dosage. When he sits again, the grip Loki takes of his hand is approaching bone-crushing. And he’s not saying that in the analogical way.

“Loki, puny mortal here—svolítið léttari, vinsamlegast?”

The pressure loosens a little, still painful but not quite as likely to actually crack anything. The god digs his heels into the mattress with another moan.

“Hvað gerðir þú?” he begs breathlessly. “Hvað gerðirðu við mig?”

_What did you do to me?_

“Ég bjargaði lífi þínu.”

_I saved your life._

“Ég vil ekki að vera vistað!”

_I didn’t want to be saved!_

Tony narrows his eyes. “Fucking tough. You don’t just get to off yourself, got it? Sorry it hurts, I really am, but don’t you dare start saying that again. Got it?”

“Fara ríða kú, Stark,” he spits back.

As his awareness increases, he begins to notice the life-support equipment and starts panicking again. Not that Tony blames him, because it’d freak him out and he _knows_ what it is, but pulling out the IV for the pain meds isn’t going to help the god at all.

He takes Loki’s other hand as well and tries to calm him a little, enough so that at least he won’t hurt himself.

“Anda, Loki. Það er allt í lagi, Ertu– hvað er hugtakið sem þú notar alltaf? Heilun deild? Þú ert í heilun deild. Slappað af.”

_Breathe, Loki. What’s the term you always use? Healing ward? You’re in the healing ward. Chill._

“Slappað af? _Slappað af?_ Þú vilt að ég _slappað af?_ Taktu heimskur Midgardian þinn snýr af setningu og standa þá upp rassinn þ–”

Tony cuts him off mid-rant. “Æpa á mig seinna, fáviti. Reyndu að anda, því loftið er stórfurðulegur ógnvekjandi og það mun hjálpa.”

_Yell at me later. Try to breathe, it will help._

*’*’*

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wanted the peace, the warmth, the light!

_Wrong, wrong, **wrong–!**_

His body is off, something isn’t right, something is really, really wrong. There’s sorcery in his veins, a sickly sweet aftertaste that makes him feel ill. He’s never had a taste for it, although on occasion he’s dabbled when he’s had reason to, but that was primarily potion-work and charms. Those are fine, but _this_ is a fool’s excuse for magic. It’s toy jewelry—shiny and gold, but after a few days leaves tarnish on your hand that takes days to get off. He’d gag, had he the energy. That’s not the worst, though, which in and of itself is concerning, but there’s something far more wrong in his veins than cheap magic. It’s a buzz, a hum, both familiar and far, _far_ too foreign. It doesn’t belong in his body. His chest aches in twelve different ways, some of them familiar—knife wounds are nothing new, he’s had half-healed flesh and stitched himself back together more times than he can count—but there’s something _wrong_ and it terrifies him.

He hurts all over, and none of it makes sense. Whatever sorry excuse for a healing ward this is, he feels like he’s tied up in the cave again, and it’s everything he can do not to panic entirely. There are needles in his arm, but when he goes for them the mortal swats his hand away with some nonsense about medicine and nutrition and words that he doesn’t care about enough to translate.

Let him _go!_

Something is wrong, so wrong in his chest, and as much as it hurts to do, he claws at it to get rid of it . It doesn’t belong there, keeps sending energy through his body that shouldn’t be there, it hurts and doesn’t belong,  doesn’t belong, _doesn’t belong–!_

*’*’*

When Loki goes for the arc reactor, it’s all he can do to keep the god from tearing it out completely. If he hadn’t been comatose for so long, there’s no way he’d be weak enough for Tony to hold him back, but as it stands he’s just barely able to.

“Loki! Loki, _nei.”_

The god fucking _growls,_ baring his teeth in a damn worrisome snarl. “Hvað gerðir þú? Hva–” He closes his eyes and takes a breath, focusing. “What on Svartalfheim have you done to me?” It’s practically a shriek, and one that hurts Tony’s ears, at that.

“Breathe, asshole! I’m not telling you anything until you’re calm enough not to tear my fucking head off by mistake!”

“It will be no mistake, _mortal.”_

“You’re not helping your case.”

“I don’t care about my _case,_ I want this to stop! Do I have to tear your world down brick by brick for you to see that?”

“Well, you’re not doing any world-ending from here, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure that you’re not going to be that steady on your feet, so calming down is still the best option.”

“Then I’ll tear _myself_ apart, I care not!”

“Hell no you won’t, I didn’t just drag you back from the dead for you to go right on back. Would you get your head out of your ass for once and think about something other than yourself?”

Loki giggles, and if that’s not the most terrifying sound he’s ever heard then shoot him now.

“You think,” the god says, completely off-balance, “that I did this just for _myself?_ Do you think I’m selfish, for trying to end it? Of _course_ I am. After all, I am the worthless shadow, am I not? Constantly failing to meet anyone’s expectations? Don’t worry, I know. Because millennia of torture and agony your sorry mortal mind can’t even begin to _comprehend_ is fine. Mercy is too good for me, isn’t it? Loki _deserves_ it.”

“That’s not what I–”

“That’s _exactly_ what you meant, fool. You think Asgard will just forgive me my transgressions? You see before you what they did last time as just a slap on the wrist,” he says angrily, pulling his hand away to gesture to his eyes and mouth, “what do you think they do to prisoners who’ve escaped? Or, even better, escaped and betrayed the realms yet again?”

“Lo–”

“Oh, no, but it’s _selfish_ to show myself mercy, isn’t it? When it’s only a matter of time before He finds me and makes me _beg_ for pain. It’s _selfish_ to try to protect Midgard from his destruction. To try to save Asgard—my home, my _people_ —from a monster of power and wrath greater than you can ever imagine. To save them from the same fate I have and will suffer at His hand. It’s _selfish_ to stay as far away from the Tesseract as possible, so that I don’t lead him to both it and the Infinity Gauntlet. So that I don’t lead him to the weapon so powerful that he could raze this and every world to the ground—and not in the way I am meant to. Not to bring Yggdrasil full-circle that new life might grow, no, he would kill everything and everyone for Lady Death’s sake, to try and win her affections, and smile at the blood on his hands whilst She can never recover. It’s _selfish_ to sacrifice myself to save _all of creation!_ But no, it’s not selfish at all for you to drag me back and risk all of that, just so you have someone to entertain you when you get bored.”

Tony’s not completely sure what to say to that.

*’*’*

Part of him wants to apologize. To say that he’s sorry.

The funny thing about liars, though, is that they tell the truth.

*’*’*

Tony stays away from Loki’s room after that. It’s not that he’s angry, or upset, or ashamed or anything, it’s just because he knows the god doesn’t want to see him right now. Once it was clear that he wouldn’t try to off himself again, Tony decided to give him some space.

Okay, maybe it was for the other reasons too.

Clint finds him in the shitty team break room, binging on stale twinkies from the disused vending machine.

“Did you and your boyfriend take a swing at each other or something? You hardly left his room for a month, and now you’re avoiding it like the plague.” He drops a couple dimes into the machine (and seriously, why do they have to pay for SHIELD snacks when they’re being held here mostly against their will?) where they land with a hollow clang in the mostly-empty coin box. “Aww, did you take _all_ of them?”

“Want one? They’re shit, I’m guessing at least six years old. How old is this place?”

“‘bout six years.”

“Fantastic. When I get food poisoning from ancient Hostess cakes, SHIELD’s paying the bill.”

The archer taps a couple buttons on the keypad. “Dude, doesn’t Stark Industries pay essentially all our medical staff? You’d just be paying your own bill.” A bag drops from the shelf with a crinkle of plastic, and the metal flap on the machine squeaks obnoxiously when he opens it.

“At least I’m not paying it twice. I swear to god, the first thing I’m doing when I get out of here is having all SHIELD’s break rooms remodeled. Maybe the dorms, too, except for Fury’s. He can keep his old shit.”

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Clint defends, dropping onto the couch beside him. “So the lights flicker a little, and the heating’s dodgy—we’ve got food, water, and a roof. This is just as good as it is back at my apartment, so don’t dists it too much. Plus we’ve got internet.”

“I’m remodeling your apartment then, too.”

That earns him a pretzel between the eyes. “Shut up, I like my apartment. It’s homey. Well, in a tracksuit-mafia-likes-to-come-after-you-with-baseball-bats sort of way, but still.”

“How much is SHIELD paying you, minimum wage?”

“If I wanted to live in a tower with my name across the top, I would—Nat and I could probably pool our funds and pull it off without too much of an issue. I’m happy where I am. Well, where I _would_ be, if I wasn’t stuck here making sure the whacko in the other room doesn’t go on a murder spree…” He gives Tony a look to show exactly how fun he thinks this current job is. “I’ve got good neighbors, Dog Cops, and a roommate who only wants to kill me some of the time.”

“Wait, you watch Dog Cops?”

Clint laughs. “Hell yeah I do. Pretty sure all of SHIELD does, actually. If someone ever wants to take over the world, Tuesday nights at eight would be the time to do it. There’s a projector down in the west wing of B3 where everyone usually hangs out to watch. Pizza, too.”

“Why the hell don’t I know about all the secret agent events?”

“Probably because you’re curled up in a chair pining after a crazy Norse asshole. The rest of the team’s known about it for weeks, we even got Steve to drag in an official Avengers couch so we don’t have to sit on the linoleum. Well, unless a couple new recruits show up and don’t realize it’s ours, in which case we get to haze them before sitting down.”

“How do you guys haze people?”

The archer shrugs, crunching on a pretzel thoughtfully. “Live-fire training exercises are always fun.”

_”What?”_

“Don’t look at me like that, we haven’t done it in months. Hill got pissed when some guy ended up in the med wing with a bullet in his ass. In our defense, if you get shot that easily, you shouldn’t be a field agent. Nat wasn’t even there that day, she totally missed out.”

“You actually shot at them, though?” he asks, disbelieving.

“Hey, when Nat and I were still in training under SHIELD, agents would take shots at us anywhere, anytime. It was part of the lesson—never let your guard down, even around people you think are allies. Allies don’t exist.”

“Sounds fun. Awesome team-building exercise, there.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “The point was that you shouldn’t assume anything about anyone. People turn, Stark. Better safe than sorry.”

“What about you and Natasha, though? I thought you were like two assassin peas in a pod of death.”

“There’s always an exception to the rule. She and I have history, enough that it’s safer to trust each other than not. I mean, you can’t really talk, considering you’ve said you trust _Loki.”_

With a groan, he flops back against the cushions. “That guy is a fucking piece of work. I have no clue what the fuck to do with him, or how the fuck to act around him right now. He’s fucking batshit.”

“I think that’s a record of how many times you can say ‘fuck’ at a time. Beaten only by Fury when he goes off on one of his motherfucking rants.”

He swats at him. “Shut up, I’m having a crisis. Hence the copious amounts of sugar.”

“Get Nat to talk to him or something, I don’t know. What are you two even fighting about?”

“He’s pissed that he’s alive, and the fact that he’s got an arc reactor in his chest isn’t helping.”

“He’s got a _what_ in his _where?”_

“Arc reactor. You know, round, shiny, doesn’t get along well with palladium…”

“I know what an arc reactor is, Stark, I mean you _put one in him?_ Are you crazy? You just handed him a bomb!”

“More like a supercharged pacemaker. And yeah, I’m probably crazy, but if he was looking for a bomb it’s not like he’d have a hard time getting his hands on something. He’s resourceful like that.”

“You’re not making me feel any better,” Clint notes. “I still vote Nat.”

“Are you kidding me? He’ll either shut down or murder someone, I’m not sending her in there! That’s a lot more dangerous than the arc reactor, trust me.”

“You realize that the best solution would probably be to just talk to him yourself, you know.”

“All he’ll do is tell me how selfish I am, and then start yelling in Asgardian. I’m starting to wish I hadn’t learned a little of his stupid language, because he’s got a really foul mouth on him. Sailors have _nothing_ on the asshole.”

“I mean, he kind of has a point.”

“Don’t side with Loki! I thought you hated him!”

“I do. Doesn’t mean he’s not right, though. I mean, if I tried to kill myself because I knew the other outcome was going to be a lot worse, getting saved so the bad shit can still happen wouldn’t be the best thing that ever happened to me. Just saying.”

Tony runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “I hate my life.”

“Yeah? Join the club. That should be the Avengers slogan.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint may or may not be my favorite Avenger, largely thanks to the current Hawkeye series, so there will probably be a few references here and there (see: Dog Cops). You don't need the comics to understand what's going on or anything, but you _do_ need the comics because Fraction/Aja/Hollingsworth is the ultimate Marvel dream team, and it's incredible.


	32. 67

It’s with great hesitancy that he swings open the door, casting a sliver of light into the darkened room that falls over the god’s body.

“Loki?”

No response, but he’s pretty sure the trickster isn’t asleep.

“Loki, we need to talk.”

The god cants his head slightly, an indicator that he’s listening, so Tony shuts the door behind him and walks over to the chair beside the bed. For some reason he’s gotten used to not turning on the lights in the room if nobody else is around, although he’s not sure what it is—maybe it’s knowing he’s blind, or maybe just a weird habit after sleeping so long in here, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Clint keeps telling me how much of an idiot I am.”

“Good.” The god’s voice is raspy, still a bit unused.

He sighs, the next bit difficult but necessary. “I’m sorry, Loki.”

The asgardian shuts his eyes and lays his head back on his pillow. “Just go, Stark, leave me alone. I don’t want to hear your lies.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Stark, I’m in pain and I feel miserable. I don’t want to do this right now.”

He looks at Loki for a moment. “Can you sit up without too much pain? Relative pain, I mean.”

“To an extent, yes.”

“Then sit and move forward a little.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Just trust me, okay?”

“You make that difficult.”

“…please?”

The god frowns, but does as he’s asked (albeit with a wince of discomfort).

Tony kicks his shoes off and climbs onto the bed behind him, then wraps his arms around the god’s waist with care to avoid any of the wounds. Loki tenses noticeably.

“Relax, Comet.”

“Stark–”

He sighs. “Loki, we’ve lived together for how many months now? Five? I know you better than you think.”

It takes a while, he’s not entirely sure how long, but he’d guess five or ten minutes before the god starts to relax.  That’s a lot slower than usual—over the past month or so, Loki’s stopped shying away so much—but shit’s been crazy lately so he doesn’t push things.

“Can I talk now?”

“If you must, although I’m not particularly comfortable with our present arrangement.”

“Too bad, I’m not moving. Just chill.” Tony rests his head on the back of the god’s shoulder, trying to figure out how to word things. “I’m sorry, okay? My number-one talent is fucking shit up. I went against what you wanted, and the arc reactor wasn’t something you should have had happen without your choice.”

“I hate it,” Loki admits bitterly. “It feels wrong, and every instinct screams at me to tear it out.”

“I was scared, you know. Do you have any idea how close you came to dying, and how many times?”

“Unfortunately I never quite got there, it seems. At least not in such a way that it took.”

“I want to say this now: I understand why you did what you did. I know that it felt like the only way out—that you were scared, and trapped, and don’t kill me for saying it, but you were weak.”

Loki flinches.

“It’s okay to be weak sometimes, you know.”

“Weakness gets you killed, or worse,” he snaps.

“Sometimes. Not always. Let me finish, asshole, because I was about to say that you’re right—I was selfish. It’s kind of a talent of mine, actually, and if you hadn’t realized that by now then you’re an idiot. I look out for number one, and generally other people come second. Feel free to hate me for it.”

“Oh, believe me, Stark. I do.”

“Hey, fair enough, but in my defense? You sort of stabbed yourself. Not gonna lie—that didn’t exactly make me jump for joy.”

“It should have. I am a _monster,_ Stark, and you saw what I can and will do if need be.”

“How many times do I have to tell you you’re not a monster before you get it through that thick Asgardian skull?”

“How many times must I try to kill myself before you’ll let me die?” he retorts.

“I’m not going to let you. I’ll drag you back as many times as it takes for you to realize that life’s worth living.”

Loki’s entire demeanor shifts, becoming a hundred times darker and more serious. “Stark.”

“Yeah?”

“I need you to make me an oath.”

Shit. Scary god-oaths to scary gods. Scary, angry gods. Fantastic. “And what would that be, exactly?”

“If I am ever going to be taken to Asgard without any chance of escape, or if He finds me and there is no other way, swear to me that you’ll end my life. Swear that if I am unable to do so, you will.”

“Lok–”

 _”Swear to me–!”_ the god yells.

“I–”

 _”I need you you to swear to me,”_ he snarls, _”that if I have no escape, you will take mercy and kill me.”_

Alright, that’s approaching scary-as-fuck territory, and… “Okay.”

“Swear it. On something that matters.”

“What the hell do I have that matters enough to me to swear on?”

Loki growls. “Just make the oath.”

“Okay, okay. I swear that if there’s no other way—and only if there is _absolutely_ no other way—that I’ll kill you if that happens.”

The asgardian noticeably relaxes. “Thank you.”

“You’re really freaked out about them, aren’t you?”

“Believe me,” he says with a shudder, “I am right to be.”

Tony sits back a bit so he can try to ease some of the tension from Loki’s shoulders. The guy’s so fucking contact-deprived that it practically hurts to watch, and that’ll take _years_ to fix. Not even fix, really, but at least help. Hence why he’s being way more huggy around him than is really in his character—it’s the best way to get the god to open up, and if he’s lucky relax a little. To an extent, it’s working, because at least Loki’s not killing him. Gotta start somewhere.

“Something you want to talk about?”

He tenses. “No. I– Never. I’m never talking about that.”

“Hey, shh, it’s alright. I’m not going to push. Breathe.”

“I am not some _child_ to be _coddled–!”_

“Donder. Chill the actual fuck out. You get way too defensive, way too easily, now let go of the sheets before you rip a hole in them.”

Loki’s instinctual response to this sort of stress has always seemed to be to dig his nails into whatever’s convenient. Sheets, cushions, legs, palms… doesn’t matter. And he’s got some damn sharp nails.

With visible effort, the god does.

“Better?”

“No,” he snaps back.

“Well, can I tell you what I came in here for now? Or are you going to start yelling at me again?”

“I’ll make no promises.”

“Fine, whatever. Listen. You said the only option other than going to Asgard was death, but what would you do if I said there was another?”

The god cocks his head a bit, waiting for him to continue.

“I have a plan. Because I know that SHIELD isn’t going to let either one of us walk out of this place, at least not easily. I’m not going to tell you, not here—as far as Jarvis and I can tell the room only has video surveillance, not any audio, and better safe than sorry—but I do have one. When you’re in better shape, you and I are getting out of here. Sound good?”

Loki thinks for a minute. “I am… not _completely_ against the idea.”

“Holy shit, coming from you right now that’s practically jumping up and down, giggling like a six-year-old girl.”

“I can and I will snap your neck.”

“Aww, how sweet, Cupid. I like you too.”

From his best guess, given the god’s posture and current temper, he’s scowling. Whatever.

“Out of curiosity, you know, um, what the hell happened to you? I mean, you flatlined—which shouldn’t have been possible with the reactor, by the way—and then you were magically fine again.”

“There was no magic, and I am hardly fine. It’s your own fault. Please don’t scream so in the future, it gives me a headache.”

*’*’*

“What? I didn’t scream. I might have shouted, like, once, but there was no screaming.”

Didn’t scream? What in the Nine does Stark call what he was doing, then? “Considering how strong your prayer was, I could practically hear it. Idiot mortal. Not to mention that it was an open prayer, which is an entire level of complexity altogether. Next time, do keep the volume lowered, please?”

“Wait, you heard that?”

“Heard is a loose term, but it was kind of hard _not_ to notice the ruckus you were making.”

“Is there a reason I kind of blacked out before you came to, or should I be getting my head checked out?”

He sighs in irritation, leaning back slightly. If the mortal is so intent on massaging his back, it would be nice if he’d stop being delicate about things. Perhaps the women he tends to spend time with are fragile little creatures, but considering the difference in their tissue density, Stark can’t really hurt him like this. At all.

“I had to use the prayer as a tether, since my mind is weak at present. Your own is not used to such things, so it was likely uncomfortable for you as I took hold—I’d assume that to be the reason. It is also why I couldn’t get your ridiculous emotions out of my head for a few minutes, since you have absolutely no natural talent for the art.”

That’s really the understatement of the millennium, because if anything the mortal instinctively fought both the connection and disconnection. Never, _never_ again will he use any sort of mental link to the man without serious training.

“That was _your_ freaky emotion shit going on?”

“If you would have let me cut the connection when I tried, you wouldn’t have had such an issue. It’s your own fault.”

“Sure, blame the mortal.”

“Oh, believe me—I do.”

The man finally seems to get the message, and actually uses a bit of pressure when he runs a hand up his spine. It feels rather nice, although he won’t admit that to Stark, since he’s still more than a little angry at present. That by no means says that he can’t take advantage of the offered service, though. Especially when he’s sore everywhere after lying still for so long—his body may be more resilient than a human’s, but a month or so unconscious? It takes a toll. As long as the man avoids the wounds on his chest, Loki is completely fine with this.

“So… how willing are you to talk about shit right now? Because I think there’s a discussion we’re going to have to have.”

“That highly depends on the subject matter.”

“You. Specifically, the fact that you pretty effectively tried to kill yourself. Again.”

Naturally. Stupid mortals, sticking their noses places they don’t belong.

“Then not at all.”

“Loki, we’re going to have to talk about it eventually, and putting it off won’t help things.”

“I think you’d be surprised at how effectively I can avoid doing things I don’t wish to.”

Stark drums his fingers on his back. “What if I sneak a cookie in here from the cafeteria? I mean, they’re shitty cookies, but still.”

“You can’t bribe me with food, you pathetic fool.”

“Hey, it was worth a shot.”

To be completely honest, he’s twenty-three and a half seconds from breaking one of the man’s bones just for the satisfaction of it.

“Loki?”

“What?” he snaps back.

The mortal ignores the frustration entirely, which irritates him to no end. “If I can’t ask about that,” he says with just enough hesitation to be concerning, “can I ask about something else?”

“And what would that be?”

“Your arm. Can I see?”

He swears under his breath in a few different languages. Of _course_ he would remember about that. Apparently the fact that he didn’t immediately say no is the same thing as a yes to the man, because he tries to take his hand or something. Loki brushes it off with a frustrated scowl.

“Stark–”

“Please?”

“I don’t–” he sighs, knowing that there’s really no point in hiding it. The mortal is more than aware of the truth in that regard (although he’d never meant that _particular_ truth to be known whilst he still lived), and won’t give up until he’s satisfied. It’s better than speaking of other things, he supposes.

Unhappily, and seriously considering using one of the IV needles to blind the man, he pulls up the sleeve of the robe one of the nurses had found for him to wear. She’d brought a pair of slightly large sweatpants, too, and it’s a _lot_ better than the hospital gown he’d had before so he isn’t complaining by any means. Being careful to avoid rubbing it against anything (because it really, really hurts, even if it’s not as badly as his chest), he holds his arm behind his back so the stupid fool can have his fun as the one-man audience to the fall of a god.

“Loki…” He says softly.

“Are you satisfied? May I have my hand back now?”

Instead of appeasing him, Stark supports his arm. Loki knows how it must look—sixteen sets of four small tallies with another unfinished group of three—all the same dark, fresh red from having only a couple hours to heal.  Sixty-seven in all. Two for every day missed, and one for today. Like always.

“Fucking shit, Rudolph.” the mortal mostly whispers, absentmindedly rubbing small circles on his wrist above where the cuts reach.

“You sound surprised, despite the fact that you knew what you would find when you asked.”

“Still doesn’t make it any easier to see. How does that not hurt like hell?”

“It does. That’s rather the point.”

Stark releases his arm and he pulls his sleeve down again, a slew of unpleasant emotions creeping in. This is _none of his business!_

“I’m sorry for what happened, Loki, I really am, and I know that I can’t understand what that was– _is_ like. And it’s not really my place to say anything, but I’m me, and I do stupid shit anyway. Can we please try to find some way for you to cope that doesn’t involve you slicing yourself open every night?”

“Morning.”

“Huh?”

“Every morning,” he repeats dully, “not night. Lasts longer that way.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling the mortal this, or why he ends up revealing so many of his secrets to him, and it makes him angry.

“Hey, Loki?”

_”What do you want?”_

“Woah, chill.”

Arms wrap around his waist again, and between his mind and body he ends up with six or seven different signals as to how he should react. After a few moments, when he’s calmed down a little, the man goes back to rubbing his back in what he’s assuming is supposed to be a soothing way. It just makes him more anxious.

“Look. I’m really shitty at all this emotion crap, as I’m pretty sure you’ve probably figured out by now, but I still want to help you—don’t give me that look. Sometimes people need help, even strong people, so buck it up. Okay?”

“No.”

“Too bad, you’re doing it anyway. W–”

He digs his nails into the sheets again, fighting down the rather strong desire to maim. _”Leave. Me. Alone,”_ he manages to grit out.

“Loki,” Stark tries, “seriously. Can you _honestly_ tell me that your coping strategies are either helpful or healthy?”

The hand massaging his back follows his spine to his neck. It’s supposed to be comforting, he knows, but the already-conflicting instincts solidify into a single, overwhelming one that isn’t entirely plausible at present—run. Loki tenses, his voice dropping to a low but loud growl dripping with aggression. _”GO–!”_

He doesn’t move fast enough, because in the time it takes for the mortal to stand, Loki already has the knife from the other man’s sleeve and an arm around his neck.

“You should not have pushed, fool,” he snarls. “I thought you were at least wise enough not to make the same mistake two times, let alone _thrice,_ but you disappoint. Severely. Give me one good reason I should keep my hand from accidentally slipping and running this blade through your spine.”

There’s a moment of hesitation—likely while the man’s mind is catching up—before he replies surprisingly cooly. “Because I’m the only thing keeping you from going straight back to Asgard.”

He isn’t oblivious to the fact that the door has opened. The footsteps that preceded it told him all he needs to know as to who it is, and that they’re unarmed.

“Loki, drop the knife,” a voice says, full of overly-practiced forced calm.

“Ah, Captain. Come to join the fun? I’m sure I can find another around here for you, if you like.”

“Ignore him, Rogers, it’s fine.”

Loki growls at the blatant disrespect. “Do not underestimate my anger, Stark.”

“Let him go,” comes another order. He’s never done well with orders.

“Seriously, Cap,” Stark assures the soldier, “it’s fine. He won’t hurt me.”

For that the mortal earns a gash across his shoulder, and yelps in pain.

“Oh, but won’t I, though? Do not try my patience, fool.”

To his complete surprise, instead of running, Stark spins and slaps him in the face, snatches the knife from his hand, and storms off before he can recover.

*'*'*

Of all the asshole things to do–

For fuck's sake, he was just trying to help! And maybe he's a month or so out of practice when it comes to god-handling, but _really?_

Steve finds him in his largely-unused bunk, trying to tear a piece of medical tape with his teeth while holding gauze haphazardly on his shoulder with his other hand.

"Need help?"

Tony just scowls. As it so happens, the stupid soldier decides to help anyway, and he makes it clear just what he thinks of the aid. Steve largely ignores him.

"Are you alright?"

"Am I alright? A psycho Asgardian just took a knife to my shoulder, what do you think?"

"What happened?"

"He got fucking defensive again. Stupid asshole. I was just trying to help."

"Somehow I don't feel like Loki's the kind of guy who likes being helped. Possibly even more so than you."

"What, you think I don't realize that? Please remind me in the future to never, ever take in strays again, that was an awful idea. Next time I'll adopt from the pound.”

“Stark, the pound has strays.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know that? I’m rich. I’ll go buy one with a pedigree.”

“He’s a prince.”

“Cut it out!”

“Do I need to improve security on his room?”

Tony glances up briefly, then goes back to taping the last edge down. “Probably not the best idea. Trust me when I say that it’s better right now to show a little trust than to put him on lockdown, because he’ll freak again. He’s not going anywhere.”

“Stark, he had a knife to your throat. Hell, he cut you, and pretty badly.”

He shrugs, still pissed but too used to this shit to really overreact anymore. “It’s a running trend, and it’s not as bad as it looks. Believe me, if he’d wanted to hurt me? He would have. It’s partially my fault, anyway, since it’s my knife and I know he knows where I keep it. The asshole’s just a total asshole.”

“Impressive vocabulary.”

“Shut up, you sound like him. Minus the, y’know, angry Asgardian accent.”

“I’m serious, though, Stark. How many times has he hurt you, now?”

Tony shrugs. “I don’t know, it’s not like I’m counting. Few times, depending on your definition.”

“That’s not okay. You can’t just let him walk all over you if you really are spending much time with him. I’ve seen people like Loki, and things _always_ end badly. I know you don’t want to hear it, but he’s dangerous, and Asgard is probably the safest place for him.”

He’s too fucking angry to defend the god, but– “The safest place for _him,_ Steve? Or for _us?”_

“For us. I know you like him, and you lived with him for a while, but he’s been seconds from killing you twice in what have essentially been three or four days if you don’t count the time he was unconscious, and I think you might be losing perspective a little.”

Does the world have something against him _not_ being angry today? “Get your head out of your ass, Steve, my perspective’s just fucking fine. Sorry for being the only person in this godforsaken shithole to actually look at all the variables instead of just the ones given to him, but Loki’s not going back to Asgard. I don’t care how many times he decides to poke me with a knife, it’s pretty much how he says hello.”

“And you don’t see a slight problem with that?”

“No. What I’m seeing a problem with, soldier boy, is your black and white attitude toward him—either get on my side with this, or get off. Stop hovering.” Tony stands, tossing the roll of tape onto the unkempt bed. “ If you want to ship him off then feel free to run to the assassins, but I hope you realize that there’s a reason Fury hasn’t moved in on him yet. And that reason is me.” He moves to leave, but pauses in the doorway. “I don’t know what you thought about my dad, Cap, but I seriously, _seriously_ advise against fucking with me.”

*

Walking off feels good right now. He’s pissed. The fact that he didn’t have time to grab a pair of shoes lessens that satisfaction, though, because stomping around SHIELD in socks just isn’t as satisfying, and his sneakers are still in Loki’s room.

He wonders if Clint’s around so that he can drag him to the gym downstairs and try to punch him (try being the operative word, considering the archer’s training).

*’*’*

Admittedly, he starts to regret his behavior when the mortal storms out—less because of how it must look to the Captain, and more because it was his own fault to begin with. He knows the intentions were good, but between his survival, the pain, the arc reactor, being trapped in SHIELD facilities, and everything else, well… tensions are running high. Incredibly so.

Is he slightly worried about Rogers?

That would be an understatement.

But he hurt Stark, and he seriously wishes he hadn’t, because… well, multiple reasons. He’ll admit that it was a foolish action. It’s only a matter of time before the man finally realizes he can’t be saved and leaves like everyone else, and he’s only speeding along the process. Loki’s not sure if it’s better or worse this way.

His chest aches like the time Thor and company tackled him and had Volstagg sit on him until he’d tell them where he’d hidden Fandral’s pants.

In his defense, he hadn’t started it for once.

Nor had he stopped it, as his mother had pointed out, but it still wasn’t his fault.

Loki isn’t really sure _what_ to do right now. All he knows is that everything’s confusing, and painful, and dangerous, and that he probably acted like an idiot.

He ends up dozing on and off, trying to keep his thoughts away from dark places with mixed success.

*

A few hours later, the door opens almost silently. Were it not for the familiar footsteps he’d be nervous, but the only nerves now are from fear of how the mortal will react to recent events.

To be honest, having a plate of food shoved at him isn’t quite what he’d expected, but he won’t complain. Stark drops heavily into the chair beside the bed, presumably with his own meal. They eat in tense silence. Eventually Loki breaks it, since putting things off won’t do any good in this case.

“Did you need stitches?”

“Probably.”

Damn. He forgets how fragile mortals are. “Did you _get_ stitches?”

“No.”

Now why is he not surprised?

“In the drawers on the far side of the room, there should be supplies,” he informs the man, shifting to make room. “Bring them and sit on the bed.”

It takes a few moments before Stark makes a decision, but in the end he does. Loki takes the offered materials and finds a decent position to work from.

“Feel free to dig your nails into my leg if it helps,” he notes absentmindedly when the man hisses in pain while Loki cleans the wound. “It won’t hurt me.”

“Unfortunately,” Stark replies with unveiled irritation.

He works quietly, trying not to cause too much unnecessary pain (although stitches are inherently painful, and doing things by touch certainly doesn’t help matters), hoping that the mortal will understand his intent. It may not be a fantastic apology, but it’s the best he can do under the circumstances.

“Next time you’re feeling pissy, can you not start going after me with knives?”

“You threatened me. I don’t appreciate threats when I’m already in a bad mood.”

“What? I didn’t threaten you!”

Loki shakes his head, tying off the thread. “Not intentionally, no, but you forget that we are not of the same raising.”

“What the hell did I do? We were just sitting and chatting! I mean, about not-so-fun shit, but still.”

He clips the tail and sets everything aside on the nightstand. “Our culture is built upon the bones of warriors, Stark. As such, all our customs when it comes to physical contact are different. We clasp arms instead of shaking hands, for one, and are less affectionate with strangers than you are. This–” Loki explains, wrapping his fingers loosely around the mortal’s throat, “is not seen as a good position to be in.”

“Uh, yeah, not real thrilled with it either. Hands off, please?”

With a roll of his eyes, his grip releases. “I have not known you long enough for trust to override instinct. Having your hands on or near my neck when I am in a poor mood is asking for problems.”

“Sorry.”

“You didn’t know, but perhaps you should be more aware in the future as to my mood when you decide to become ridiculously clingy. I have a warrior’s raising, which means that I protect myself from threats off of instinct.”

“Duly noted.”

He sighs, unsure of how to proceed, thanks to mixed feelings and the weight of his previous actions hanging on his shoulders.

“So…” the mortal starts, and Loki cringes, not wanting to hear how that sentence is going to end. He doesn’t know if it’s the original intention, or if Stark noticed his reaction and shifts the topic. “…wanna play Schnapsen?”

Loki grabs the deck of Brailled cards the man had brought earlier gratefully, and starts dealing a hand.

 


	33. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I was trying to reply to every comment, but ran into a slight problem in that I am really good at taking criticism but absolutely awful at handling people being nice—so if I don't respond know that it's probably because I'm sitting in my bed flailing, trying to process something logical to say, and failing miserably. 
> 
> I love you all. You're awesome.

“Holy shit, Rudolph, you’re tall again!”

“Oh, joy of joys,” Loki replies drily. _”You’re_ here.”

Granted, it’s the first time since before this whole disaster started that he’s been standing while the mortal is around, but nonetheless. It’s irritating enough that it’s taken a week for him to be able to walk short distances on his own (which the doctor doesn’t completely know about, since she insists he stay resting until his body is 'ready’ despite the fact that he knows his body plenty well, thank you), but having Stark poking his nose about doesn’t bring him any great excitement either.

On the plus side, this means that he’s been able to reclaim his knives, since apparently SHIELD isn’t wise enough to separate them from him—not that he couldn’t find weapons if they had. It still makes him a bit more comfortable, though, to know he has defenses again.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted me to grab food and then beat your ass at chess or something, but if you’re up and about, you should totally come with me so I don’t have to face the creepy cafeteria lady alone. I don’t think she likes me. At all.”

“Oh, and having a friendly lunch with SHIELD’s most wanted is going to help your case?”

“Good point… can I drag you along in handcuffs with a gun to your head and make you order the unidentifiable leftovers?”

“Only if you have a deathwish, Stark.”

“Aww, you’re no fun,” the mortal whines. “Fine. Will you at least come, so when I’m getting weird looks I’m not the _only_ one getting weird looks?”

It’s a tempting offer, if only because he wants to get out of the room and make a lot of agents very nervous, but… “Stark, they don’t know I’m blind. I’m not particularly aching to expose that fact to the entirety of the base, and in case you haven’t noticed? I didn’t bring a cane when I attacked the city. I’m fairly certain there aren’t any SHIELD agents running around here in sunglasses for the same reason I am. And did you miss the part where I _don’t want anyone to know who doesn’t have to?”_

“You make my life difficult.”

“Good. Now go get me food.”

The man laughs. “Nope. You’re coming along, Donder. If you can walk that far, you’re not leaving me alone with the creepy giggling new recruits. I’ll lead you, if you’re so worried about it.”

“Yes, because that helps so much. I’m not going anywhere outside this room in this,” he says with a scowl, gesturing at the rather haphazard clothing arrangement, “and especially not in this form."

“Oh, stop being a teenage girl. I’ll find you an outfit, your _majesty._ Would you like a tiara with that?”

“I can and will amputate one or all of your limbs.”

“Someone’s grumpy today. Fine, I’ll be right back.”

When the man returns, he finds Loki sitting cross-legged on the bed tying a knife to his arm.

“Really?”

He hums noncommittally and finishes the last knot. Stark throws a pile of clothes at him and leaves again, saying he’ll be outside, so Loki changes and finds his boots. They got scuffed during the fight, and it makes him unreasonably upset—yes, they’re just boots, and it’s his own fault, but they’re also one of the only things of his own he still has from before his fall. Do they look a little odd with sweatpants? Likely. He’s Asgardian, though—it’s not like anyone will know. The shirt and  zip-up are a lot more comfortable than the robe had been, so he’s happy, even if he’s pretty sure they’re emblazoned with the ridiculous agency logo.

He’s never altered Odin’s glamor intentionally before, and worries that it may not be possible to will back without his previous abilities. The strands are still there, he can feel, so he reaches out hesitantly.

Pulling them back in place is a long and arduous process, but feeling cool creep up his arms and across his skin is possibly the biggest relief he’s felt in a long time. It certainly doesn’t hurt things that the temperature of the room is suddenly much more comfortable, because it was sweltering before, even having convinced the doctor to turn it down.

“Dude,” Stark says when he comes out to meet him, “we switch that out for a SHIELD jumpsuit and you’d totally have the secret-agent look down. It could be, like, the godly equivalent of getting community service. Just think— _Loki, Agent of Asgard_.”

“I _really_ don’t think that is going to happen, Stark.”

“Lame. Come on, I’m getting hungry.” The mortal offers an arm and he takes it, not entirely happy with the arrangement considering it puts him in a more passive position in the eyes of onlookers, but it’s better this than running into things. Plus, to be honest, his legs still aren’t at full strength and the extra support is helpful.

While they walk, Stark chats about pointless things and Loki maps out this section of the facility in his mind. It’s not a terribly long way, for better—since he’s still not great with extended distances—or for worse—since he doesn’t learn his way around quite so much. Not that it’s incredibly difficult to find the dining area, considering the ruckus.

“It is nearly as loud as _Asgard_ in here. Is this really necessary?”

Well, it is until a couple people catch sight of him, at which point things quiet a bit. He grins at them cruelly until Stark elbows him in the side.

“Quit it, Scar, didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?”

Loki can’t help but chuckle at that. “And who are you meant to be, Zazu?”

“You getting Disney references is _so_ weird.”

“Stark, just take me to the food before I make do with whatever is at hand, because currently _you_ are at hand.”

“Are you threatening to _eat_ me?”

“It’s not technically cannibalism, since you’re human.”

“You are fucking insane.”

“Quite probably, yes,” he says with a smirk. “Food. Now. Give me.”

“Alright, alright, hold your horses.” Stark leads him over to what he assumes is a counter of some sort—however the Midgardians do things in regards to ordering food—and puts on his best overly-cheerful attitude. “Hey there, gorgeous, I’ll have the caviar if you please. The same for my evil friend.”

A couple moments later, a tray of food nudges his hand and he takes it, following the mortal to get a piece of fruit and a fork, then back to a table.

The mortal snickers quietly as he sits across from him. “Everyone’s trying not to stare, failing miserably, trying not to look like they’re staring, and failing even more miserably.”

“Fantastic,” he replies, taking a sip of water. “Can I throw a butter knife at someone?”

“No. That’s bad manners.”

He pouts. “Please? I’ll try not to kill them, just maim…”

“Considering I’m probably not _technically_ supposed to have brought you here, that’s probably not the best course of action.”

“SHIELD is so boring…”

“You’re not the one who’s been stuck conscious the past month; you can’t talk.”

“I suppose that is true,” Loki responds, picking at his food. To be honest, it isn’t the best fare he’s had—more like the servants’ meals than royalty’s—and it irks him. This is what all the agents eat, is it not? No wonder they’re so grumpy. It’s bland, and slightly undercooked (except for the pasta, which is far the opposite and may as well be a starchy mush). “Stark?”

The man hums in acknowledgement around a bite.

“…thank you.”

“For what?”

He brushes a couple stray hairs out of his face and speaks more quietly, so he can’t be overheard. “Saving me.”

“Thought you were pissed about that.”

“To an extent, yes. I still think it was a selfish, foolish, and dangerous choice, but… I told you when we were speaking, Stark. I didn’t want to die, not entirely. I do and I don’t at the same time, and I never know what to do with that. It’s not something we were taught on Asgard.”

A leg brushes against his own, and he understands the message, even if he doesn’t _understand_ it. It’s the same reason the mortal would usually take his hand or rub his back, or the like, but right now they’re both aware that they’re not exactly under the radar. With everyone watching, it’s probably best not to look _too_ friendly. The gesture is still reassuring, and he appreciates it—how the mortal always seems to know how he feels he can't understand, but it’s nice. Confusing, but nice. He smiles slightly in thanks.

“You’re not crazy, Rudolph. There’s nothing wrong with _you,_ you’re just sick. Same as someone with cancer or something—you can’t help it, and it’s not your fault. And no, there might not be a perfect cure, at least not on Earth, but there are things that can help.”

He furrows his brows. Sick? That’s a joke. At least, the way the mortal means it. He’s sick, yes, but in the twisted, disgusting way.

“Don’t give me that look, asshole. I mean it. Don’t know what they think up in Ass-guard, but down here on Earth? We’ve proved it—chemical imbalance, just like other shit, but in your head. It sucks, I know, but you’re far, _far_ from the only person who’s going through this crap. One hundred percent serious.”

“I don’t–“ Loki sighs, and rests his head in his hands. Why does everything always circle back to how broken he is? Well, probably because he stabbed himself, but still… it was supposed to be at least a semi-honorable death, saving others and avoiding his inevitable demise.

“Hey, Loki, look at me.”

He glances up. “You look rather black. Like everything else.”

“Ha ha, very funny. Seriously, though, things get better. Just trust me, okay? I mean, you might be crazy, and so am I, but not like that. Promise.”

“You are far too optimistic.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how most people would describe me.”

“I am not most people.”

“That is very true. Hey, are you going to eat that apple?”

Loki tosses it at him just as another voice appears.

“Oh, hey, he’s pink again. Stark, Director Fury’s going to have a conniption if he hears you’re dragging Loki around the base.”

The mortal bites into his apple with a loud crunch, and speaks (like an imbecile) around the food. “Hey Clint. Don’t worry, Fury’s scared of me.”

“Yeah, I don’t know what you said to freak him out—and I probably don’t want to—but you can only push him so long before he’s going to snap and you’ll _really_ regret it when he does.”

“Probably. Making good decisions isn’t a talent of mine. How’s life?”

“Oh, you know. Kicking new recruits in the ass so they don’t get killed quite as quickly, getting my ass kicked by Nat, wanting to kick this ass’ ass,” archer says casually, and Loki can only assume he’s being pointed at. He smiles.

A cracker hits him in the head. “Quit it, Blitzen, be nice to the the poor SHIELD agent. C’mon, Clint, grab a seat.”

There’s a scrape as the man pulls out a chair beside Stark, and his tray clacks when he sets it down. “Only to keep Fury from going apeshit—if he heard I knew you were here and didn’t keep an eye on you, I’d end up on cleaning duty.”

“Hey! How come you get a fresh sandwich? The one she gave me was pre-soggy!” the mortal complains (which seems to be his default setting).

“Abagail? She likes me, I killed her ex-husband.”

A silence stretches out between them.

“That is… _really_ concerning,” Stark eventually says. “And not how most people bond.”

Loki laughs. “You are obviously not of Asgard.”

“That’s just as concerning. What is it with you people killing people?”

“I’m an assassin, Stark. It’s kind of in the job description,” Barton replies.

He shrugs. “I am Asgardian. The same applies.”

“Am I the only normal one at this table? Because _that_ is concerning. Everything is concerning today!”

Loki pulls out his cell without really thinking about it—over a year on Midgard having conditioned him to checking messages out of habit—and the archer makes a sound of disbelief.

“You have a fucking _phone?”_

He glances up, realizing Barton doesn’t know all that much about his time on Earth. “Yes. Don’t most people?”

“But– you’re _you._ You don’t know how to use a _mouse.”_

“That was years ago,” Loki replies, rolling his eyes as he runs a finger over the subtle braille lettering on the back of the case, “and I’d never seen a computer before. I am capable of learning, believe it or not, and human technology is fairly intuitive if centuries outdated.”

“That’s it. I’m going crazy.”

He can’t help but laugh as he tucks his phone back into the pocket of his hoodie. “Oh, but Agent Barton, you already have. This is but a figment of your imagination—your mind trying to reconcile the horrors of what happened to you in the battle—created whilst you sit, locked away in a mental asylum following my victory. None of this is real.”

There’s a pause.

“Loki, stop being an asshole!” Stark chastises.

“I thought we had agreed that it was my natural state of being by now, idiot mortal.”

“Well, yeah, but you could at least make an _effort_ not to be.”

“Whatever happened to that Midgardian saying of always being yourself?”

“I think you’re missing a piece,” Barton chimes in bitterly. “Always be yourself, unless you’re a psychopathic monster with daddy issues and a stick up your ass.”

That was a very, very bad move on the archer’s part. Loki narrows his eyes as he tugs on the leather cord around his neck to pull the knife hanging from it out of his shirt, and sets it on the table in front of him as a blatant threat. “I would take that back, if I were you.”

“No.”

 _“Take. It. Back,”_ he growls.

The man’s voice hardens. “Make me.”

Rage flares up from the ever-present coals in his chest, warming his body in a rush of anger as he stands and unsheathes the knife. _“Final warning, mortal fool.”_

The hall falls silent as everyone present becomes aware of the stand-off.

“Psychopathic. Monstrous. Girl.”

Loki is over the table with the archer in a headlock and a knife to his throat before the man can take a breath. To be completely honest, he doesn’t even think about the motion—blind or not, it’s instinct to attack when attacked. There is no room for hesitation or contemplation in a fight.

The mortal’s pulse races and his breath hitches in genuine fear.

Good.

Let him be afraid. The scent of fear is a welcome one, like coming home. His _true_ home—not Asgard, or Jötunheim, or Midgard—battle. The rush of adrenaline, of giddiness and power? It’s his natural state of being.

Anger.

Mayhem.

_Chaos._

A hand on his arm brings him back to reality and he becomes aware of another presence beside him—Stark.

“Loki,” the man says gently, “let him go.”

It’s like having a bucket of ice water dumped on his head, as the logical piece of him disassociates from the battle-born creature of instinct that he was raised to be. His grip loosens and the archer quickly pulls free, with a quick series of backwards footsteps and panting, panicked breaths. Loki stands frozen, staring wide-eyed ahead in disbelief.

That was _incredibly_ foolish. He hadn’t planned it, but nor had he stopped himself.

“–oki. Loki?”

He becomes aware of his name being called, and looks over at the man beside him.

“Are you alright?”

“Is _he_ alright? What about me? He went fucking psycho!” Barton cries in outrage, but Stark ignores him.

“Breathe, Loki.” The hand on his arm doesn’t waver, staying a steady, reassuring presence to ground himself with. His own breaths are just as ragged as the archer’s, and his mind feels like it’s racing and frozen at the same time. He nods distantly and tries to do as the man says.

“Sit,” comes the quiet command, and he does. “Barton, are you okay?”

“No! He fucking attacked me!”

“Are you _physically injured,”_ Stark clarifies.

Loki can practically hear the scowl in the archer’s voice when he confirms that he is not.

“Then sit your ass back down, and chill the fuck out. Both of you. I feel like a mom, and that is so not cool at all—I’ve been spending way too much time around Pepper.”

The two of them sit as well, from the sound of it, and he pounces on the opportunity to shift the conversation.

“How is Pepper? I haven’t seen her.”

Stark snickers, then breaks down laughing.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Loki says with a scowl, “you know what I mean.”

“I feel like I just missed something,” Barton notes, still not quite breathing at a normal pace.

“Don’t worry about it, Clint. And she’s doing pretty well—lots of shit going on with the company, like always, but she was around here while you were out. She was going to leave flowers, but we didn’t know when you’d wake up and I told her you’d probably just burn them anyway.”

He scoffs, turning the knife in his hand absentmindedly. “I would never disrespect a gift from an honorable woman.”

“Hey, Loki. Mind putting away the blade? You’re freaking out SHIELD.”

“Good.”

“Loki…”

He sighs, and sheathes the knife. “Fine.”

“Much oblige– no, butter knife down too.”

Loki scowls, but does as he’s told.

“Danke schön.”

“You are _not_ welcome.”

He almost jumps a foot in the air when an all-too-familiar female voice speaks from behind him.

“Is there a problem, boys?”

How in the _Nine_ does she do that? He’s more alert now than ever, using the soundscape as his primary source of input for things outside the immediate vicinity, and the conniving bastard-mother _still_ comes out of nowhere. She has to be a sorcerer with teleportation capacities; there’s no other explanation.

“Nope! No problem at all, Tasha! What about you? How are you on this fine spring day?” Stark asks, overly-cheerful.

“He tried to fucking kill me!” Clint exclaims, still outraged.

Loki just points at him, feigning boredom. “He started it.”

“Tasha, want to take over babysitting duty? Because I am so not getting paid enough for this.”

“No thanks. Fury wants a word, by the way. He’s not happy.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“I’m serious, Stark—whatever you threatened him with, he’s at the end of his rope.”

“Why does everyone keep assuming that I threatened him?”

She sounds rather unamused. “Because Fury doesn’t give in to people like this, especially not to you, if there isn’t something big riding on it. I’d go see him if I were you.” With that, she turns on her heel and her footsteps recede (because _now_ he can hear them).

“You people have no faith in my heroism, do you?”

Loki can’t help but laugh. “You’ve said so yourself that you’re not a hero. Besides, heroes don’t exist—just take a look at your ‘Avengers.’ An ex-weapons-manufacturer, two assassins with _incredibly_ messy pasts, a behemoth with a hammer who was so arrogant he was banished from an entire realm, a little toy soldier so desperate to prove something to himself that he’d inject experimental chemicals into his blood to do it, and a man who pumped himself so full of radiation that now if his emotions get slightly out of balance he’ll turn into a hulking green beast who will destroy everything in sight. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m not reading ‘heroes’ in any of that.”

“Shut up!” Stark says with a huff. “We’re pseudo-heroes, okay?”

“Of course you are. Shall we go back? I’d hate for you to miss your friendly talk with the Director.” Really, he just wants to make sure the man doesn’t get dragged off before he has a way to his room—Stark is pretty much the only person in the facility (if not the state or region, considering he has no idea where they are) who he trusts as a guide. Thankfully his point seems to get across, because the man agrees and stands, taking their trays and returning to his side. When Loki rises as well, the mortal brushes his arm discreetly so that he can take it without being too obvious about his disability.

This is why he likes Stark.

They leave while the archer is taking his own tray back, Loki following the mortal with long-accustomed ease.

“You alright?” Stark asks.

“Hmm? Oh, you mean what happened with Barton?”

“Yeah. You kind of freaked out there. Big time.”

He looks away, cheeks flushing red in shame. “My apologies. It wasn’t intentional, it just sort of… happened. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Alright, just making sure. He _was_ kind of an ass, so  I don’t completely blame you, to be honest. Just, next time you feel like throttling someone? Try not to do it in front of all of SHIELD, okay?”

Loki laughs quietly. “I’ll do my best. Thank you for stopping me.”

“Hey, that’s what friends are for, right? Keeping each other from killing stupid SHIELD agents when they piss us off?”

“I suppose that is one way to describe friendship.”

“How would you describe it?”

He shrugs. “I suppose leading a blind fool around isn’t a half bad place to start.”

It’s Tony’s turn to laugh. “Nah, not bad at all. Look at me, such an awesome friend.”

Loki shoves him gently. “Don’t push it.” He can’t help but smile, though.

“Alright, asshole, your stop. I’ve got an angry eyepatched guy to deal with. Brought you a gift when I showed up, though—it’s on the nightstand. Knock yourself out. Literally or metaphorically, actually, take your pick, although I recommend the latter. Be back in a few, sound good?”

“That sounds fantastic. I’ll be… here. As I’m sure you could have guessed.”

“What? I would have never had a clue. I thought you’d end up on the roof like you always seem to. You know, _up on the housetop, reindeer pause–”_ he starts to sing until Loki shoves him again.

“Go, dear Norns, before I go deaf!”

Stark laughs and finally leaves to talk to the Director, and Loki finds his way back to his bed. The mortal’s ‘gift’ is actually two—a five-by-five version of his previous Rubik’s cube, marked so he can tell which side is which, and a book in Braille. Glad to be back where there’s painkillers and a place to rest (to his unending irritation, his body is exhausted already after spending so much time motionless), he lays down to read.

*

When the door swings open, he’s engrossed in Tom Sawyer’s misadventures and doesn’t pay all that much attention until the person speaks.

“Loki.”

He glances up at the voice—not Stark—and finishes the line he’s on. “Yes?”

 


	34. Truth

“How do you fare, brother?”

He stiffens, lips curling into a snarl. “I am no brother of yours, you disgusting creature.”

“Loki, how many times must I tell you that your parentage matters not to m–” The prince is cut off by a hand to his throat as Loki shoves him back against the wall.

“This is not about _parentage,”_ he spits back, tightening his grip. “You _held me down_  while I wept in fear and sewed my lips shut, your eyes cold as ice with no hint of remorse. Any trace of my brother is long since dead, and you but wear his face.” Loki throws him sideways hard enough that he nearly falls and stumbles back to the bed, breathing raggedly as he tries to hold back a panic attack. This is the last conversation he needs right now.

“I–”

“If you ever truly loved me, you would have fought for me! Where were you during my trial, hmm? When I was not allowed to even speak in my own defense? You _abandoned_ me!”

Thor’s voice breaks, and it only makes his anger grow. “You think I abandoned you?”

“That is what I just said, is it not? My brother is _dead,_ and you are a disgrace to the name Thor!”

Because he really did love him once; he’ll not deny that. He weeps for that time in his soul, because despite his arrogance and brashness, Thor had been his one constant companion for three thousand years. The Odinson destroyed him in a matter of days, leaving _this_ in its wake.

“Loki, brother, I did not sit idly by! I begged father to listen to reason, to reconsider your punishment—he planned to have you executed! Mother and I could not convince him to hear you, because your tongue has caused too much trouble in ages past. I asked to be the one to sew your lips, because the einharjar he had chosen resents you—would have made it agonizing—at least I could do my best to be gentle! I hated it, brother, and the look in your eyes as I did so has haunted me every night since in my dreams.”

He turns his back so that Thor can’t see the tears that spill over. This is all wrong. This isn’t how their futures were supposed to go—they were supposed to rule over Asgard and usher in a golden age of peace. When did everything start to crack and fall apart?

“Where were you?”

“Where was I when?” And he sounds genuinely confused, the moronic fool.

Loki laughs, off-balanced. “When they dragged me up the mountainside, Odinson. When they slaughtered my twins in front of me and bound me to a rock with their entrails. Where were you?”

“Don’t be dramatic, Loki, it’s not funny.”

 _“Dramatic?_ I am not speaking falsehoods, you foot-licking harlot! Váli and Narfi are _dead!”_

Thor makes a noise of shock. _“What?”_

 _“THEY KILLED MY CHILDREN, ODINSON, WHERE WERE YOU THEN?”_ he screams, unable to hold back the rage and pain. For over a year now, he’s needed to know why, because his brother would not have let that happen. His brother would have stopped it.

“Loki, I–” a hand falls on his shoulder and he jumps, pulling away with a snarl. “I didn’t know! Father would not let me follow when they took you to be imprisoned, for he knew I would interfere. I was desperate to know if any piece of my brother remained, and he was well aware of the fact. I trusted his judgement.”

He just giggles, too upset and overwhelmed to do anything more.

“I am truly sorry, brother, had I known…”

“Take your apologies and shove them up your ass,” he hisses. “Sorry will not bring them back. Whatever happened to ‘warriors don’t apologize?’”

“They don’t. But brothers do.”

“You are not my brother, in blood nor in spirit.”

“Loki, you are–” The hand finds his shoulder again and he spins, letting the glamor drop in a moment of rash lividness.

“Go ahead, Odinson,” he sneers, feeling him freeze, “slay me. Like you swore to do as a child—hunt us down and slay us all!”

There’s a long, heavy pause as the thunderer most likely stares. Slowly, fingers brush against his temple and Thor moves to take off his glasses. For a moment he tenses, planning to pull away before the man can learn the truth, but doesn’t do so in time.

Thor gasps.

“Wh– What happened?”

He laughs, low and dark. “Asgardian justice, _brother,_ what do you think?”

“You are _blind?”_

“No, Thor,” Loki responds drily. “I simply thought the scars were attractive.”

A hand starts to caress his cheek and he pulls away on instinct.

“For all this time? You have been trapped on Midgard, sightless?”

“I do not want your _pity,_ fool. Do not for a second think me less dangerous, or less likely to kill you.”

“Oh, brother…”

“I am _not_ your brother!” he shouts, too many emotions pooling in his chest as he glares toward Thor.

Strong arms wrap around his shoulders, and he’s pulled into an embrace far too tight. It’s stifling, and confining, and he can’t breathe for the fear that shoots through his veins at the immobility. He struggles to free himself, shoving against the thunder god’s chest, but can’t get away. His breathing speeds up and his heart pounds painfully in his chest.

A hard, unhappy voice speaks from the doorway.

“Thor. Let him go and give him a bit of space. For fuck’s sake, can’t you tell he’s freaked out?”

When the grip loosens slightly he jerks away, trying to stop hyperventilating, and practically falls over the bed when he scrambles backwards to get room to calm down.

“I am sorry–”

“I do not want your apologies! Get out!” Loki shrieks, reaching for the blade he keeps in his boot.

“Thor, that’s probably a good idea,” Stark agrees, thank the Norns. He needs the other god gone, _now._

“I–” Thor sighs. “Of course. My apologies, Tony. You’re right.”

Naturally. A mortal’s words are more swaying than his own.

“I’ll be nearby if you wish to speak, brother.”

He cringes at the term, but just snarls until Thor leaves. When the door shuts, all pretense of strength dissolves and Loki falls back onto the bed with a sob. As much as he hates showing weakness in front of others, Stark has seen him as such plenty of times before, and he doesn’t know how to hold it together right now.

The mattress dips, and a warm body rests beside him. Stark doesn’t speak, just wraps an arm around his waist and lets him cry. Loki weeps for times lost, for children killed, for pain and fear and loneliness, and the mortal is a comforting presence while the overload of feeling takes its toll.

Of course, he knew that he’d have to face Thor eventually. The plan had been to yell—to scream and rant until the monster had left, and protect himself from the past in doing so.

That didn’t quite work out.

Now he doesn’t know what to do, or how to react… the truth is too complex and frustrating. He just wants it to _end._

Reluctantly, he looks over to Stark with conflicting emotions.

“Yeah?” the mortal prompts.

Loki bites his lip. “I–…” He doesn’t want to say it, but at the same time he does. Everything is building up and he needs to say _something,_ if only to ease the pressure a bit. “My thoughts are turning dark. Toward ill-advised actions,” he admits.

Why he trusts the mortal enough to say so he doesn’t know, which is worrisome, but he does.

“Suicide?”

He nods, gaze dropping. “It’s all too much.”

The bed squeaks quietly as Stark shifts. This time, when fingers brush over his cheek he closes his eyes and leans into it, using the contact to ground himself.

“I know it’s hard, Loki, but things get better. I promise. Promise in the Asgard way, I mean. You’re going to be alright.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been through my fair share of shit, and I’m still alive. And because I know you well enough to know you’re stronger than you think. You’ll make it.”

“I envy your optimism.”

“Hey, Donder. You’re pretty awesome, and I don’t think enough people have told you that. Just trust me, okay? I’m not going to bail on you; I’m going to help you figure crap out and get’cha through it.”

Loki shifts closer with a sigh. It should probably feel degrading, but the methadone has been messing with his head a bit, and he took a few pills a little while ago so the effects are at the stronger end. “I don’t understand you.”

“Don’t worry, I don’t understand me either. I gave up ages ago.”

He laughs softly.”I suppose that is fair.”

“Yep. Hey, want to watch The Princess Bride?”

“That sounds like an awful chick flick.”

Stark gasps in mock offense. “You did _not_ just say that about The Princess Bride. It’s got, like, the most epic swordfight scene of all time. Granted, you won’t be able to see it, but it’s still got some pretty awesome twists. We have to watch it now.”

“If you insist…”

“Oh, I do. I need Vezzini in my life today. Hand me my tablet?”

Loki reaches over to the nightstand where the mortal’s computer sits and gives it to him. There’s the dull tap of fingers on glass for a few minutes, and soon enough they’re both caught up in the insanity that is Buttercup’s life.

*’*’*

Tony isn’t entirely sure when he falls asleep, only that when he slowly blinks awake he’s comfortably situated in Loki’s arms.

Well this is awkward.

Then again, they’ve got a weird enough relationship that it probably shouldn’t faze him, so he doesn’t bother pulling away. It’s kind of nice, and the god is ridiculously clingy. He feels bad, he really does—whatever happened between him and Thor, it fucked with Loki’s head pretty badly. The fact that he actively sought out contact during the movie is a testament to that, because for the most part Tony has to coerce him into pretty much any form of physical reassurance. Granted, once he has it, Loki relaxes pretty quickly, but it’s a matter of initiating it.

The god looks so peaceful when he’s unconscious that it’s depressing, because the normal guarded worry that always seems to haunt him falls away. It’s like he loses a couple years in age. Poor guy.

He hums AC/DC quietly, and Loki smiles slightly in his sleep. It’s an expression Tony wishes he could see more often, because it suits him, and the god looks damn beautiful when he’s happy.

That’s kind of a weird thing to think. Okay, then.

Tony yawns, watching the different expressions that flit over Loki’s face while he dreams. Why can’t it be like this all the time? It’s kind of funny, really, because last year the times he hated most were the ones when he didn’t have anything to do. Now they’re his favorite, because the two of them can just _be._ It’s nice. Something he hasn’t had before. Even with Pepper, there was always a lingering restlessness.

“Are you planning to stare at me all day?” the god asks, voice still rough with sleep.

“Holy fuck, man, you scared the living shit out of me. How long have you been awake?”

Loki shrugs. “A few minutes. Enough to feel your gaze.”

“You absolute asshole.”

“Mm, I try…” He stretches, with a wince when the motion pulls at his scars. “What time is it?”

“Like six in the morning. I think we’ve effectively fucked up our body clocks.”

“Mine has been off for a year and a half; I’ve long since given up trying to remedy the situation.”

“Fair point. I think most people would declare me beyond hope.”

“I don’t think that’s the only respect you’re beyond hope in.”

“Hey!”

The god chuckles. “You were asking for it.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Never. Did you rest pleasantly?”

Tony gestures at their current arrangement before remembering that Loki can’t see the motion (which you’d think he would have gotten used to by now, but being around other people for so long without the god being awake has screwed up his groove). “I mean, I feel like a teddy bear, but yeah.”

“You’re more like a space heater. It’s quite pleasant, actually, so thank you.”

“Now I just feel used.”

“But it was in the service of a god—you should be honored.”

“Yeah, sure, whatever you say. What about you? Sleep well?”

“Aye. Surprisingly.”

“It’s because I’m magic.”

Loki turns his head to look toward him. “Unfortunately, no. As I said before, while you have the potential for magehood, you are not one.”

“That is still the weirdest concept.”

“Not really. All living things have an inherent connection to the Mother Ash, and it is her power a mage channels. You simply have to learn to manipulate that connection safely.”

“You say that like it’s easy.”

“Yes… It’s quite difficult, but the principle isn’t all that complex. It would likely be far harder for you than, say, a worshipper of my pantheon, because your view of the universe is far different. Actually, it would likely be harder for you than most people, although you hold great potential if you were able to tap into it.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re clever, and a creator. You have the right mindset for it, except for the piece where you are slightly too scientific. You currently lack the ability to trust in the inexplicable.”

“I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult there, buddy.”

“A bit of both, I suppose, although primarily the former. Don’t let it affect your ego _too_ much, though, because unless you actually manipulate magic, it doesn’t count.”

“Lame.”

“I know you are, but what am I?”

Tony can’t hold back a laugh. “How the _hell_ do you know that saying? Were you spending time at a playground or something?”

“Wait, it is Midgardian as well? We used to say it as children on Asgard.”

At that, he just breaks down entirely. “Oh my _god,_ that is fucking _perfect._ Yeah, we said it too; that is the best cross-species coincidence _ever.”_

Loki’s snickering too, his smile genuine. “I suppose petty children are petty children, whatever their realm of origin. Granted, ours sounded more like ‘Ég veit að þú ert, en hvað er ég?’ for those of us who used Low Asgardian, but the meaning is the same.”

“What do you mean ‘low’ Asgardian?”

“Hmm? Oh, the Allspeak is not spoken by all. It’s not actual words, and is more difficult to teach, so the lower classes speak what you would consider to be Asgardian whilst the nobility uses the Allspeak. It’s part of the reason that the classes are so distinct, because the divide is in thought process as well as wealth.”

Tony makes a noise of confusion, prompting the god to continue.

“The Allspeak is concept, not specific words. If I were to use it, it would not be as though my language was being roughly translated to yours—my intentions would be communicated in perfect English. There’s no dilution. Because of that, people like Thor don’t think in words like we do. Their minds are pure concept.”

“That is weird as fuck. Why are you different?”

“It’s very good for diplomacy, since it avoids error, but I’ve always preferred to use your type of speech because it allows for more careful word choice, and thus manipulation of language in a way the Allspeak is incapable of. Technically, I know the Allspeak, since it’s what I was raised to know as my first language, but around what you would consider to be five or six I started to learn the other Asgardian forms of speech. By now they are more familiar to me than the Allspeak, but it means that I am considered to think like the lower classes for the most part. For better or for worse, I suppose. It’s hard to say.”

“Because you think with words.”

“Exactly. I can transition over to the other way, but it’s difficult to maintain since I am so used to this.”

“So people know that you talk differently, then? Even though it translates for them.”

“Mhmm. I used the Allspeak sometimes for political reasons, as the æsir can tell when I’m speaking Low Asgardian even though they’re hearing a translation. It sounds different to them.”

“Huh.”

“Odin was always confused as to why I’d choose not to use the Allspeak, and most of the aristocracy echoed his sentiments. I got my revenge when I could manipulate them in ways they couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Or the time that I turned all the visiting nobles’ horses into frogs.”

“Wait, you _what?”_

“Turned their horses into frogs. Well, the rough Asgardian equivalent of frogs, though if you just use the Midgardian creature it’s close enough. The Allfather was quite unhappy, but it was worth it. I turned them back, of course, but the panic… I loved it.”

“You are seriously twisted.”

“Most likely. Face it, though, would you really like me otherwise? It’s why we get along—we’re both a little off.”

“I think ‘a little’ is the understatement of the year.”

“True enough.” Tony pulls the blankets up over them, because Loki is _chilly_ when he’s got blue skin, and if he’s going to be a space heater, he’d like to keep at least a little of his warmth in, thanks. “How’s your chest doing?”

Loki cocks his head at the conversation shift, but to be honest, Tony’s just curious. “It aches, but with the medicine it is bearable. I still do not like the arc reactor. The energy is foreign and feels wrong in my veins.”

“Sorry, Donder.”

“You did it to save my life—as much as it frustrates me, your intentions were good. Don’t apologize. As I said yesterday, I am glad that you have faith enough in me to keep me safe. Especially after what I did to your city.”

“What, the blowing-everything-up stunt?”

“No, when I started buying random strangers snowcones. _Yes,_ the blowing-everything-up stunt!”

He shrugs. “Look, man. We live together. I saw how hard you were fighting to keep that from happening, so you get a little leeway in my mind for that. Everyone fucks up sometimes.”

“Most people don’t start destroying Manhattan,” Loki points out, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, well, you’re a chaos god. I don’t know what the rules are for that, but something tells me they’re a little different than your everyday civilian wandering down Broadway.”

“No, I suppose you’re right…”

“Of course I’m right, I’m Tony Stark.

“Your ego is disgraceful. Is there any methadone left in the bottle on the table over there?”

Tony turns to check, and affirms that there is, passing it to the god at his request. “You’re being careful with that, right?”

“Yes, Stark…” Loki sighs, sounding for all the world like a teenager irritated at their parents for reminding them to be back by ten. “I’ve been taking it as directed. Not that I won’t have to go off a little at a time, but I have no intentions of repeating the morphine incident.” The bottle rattles as the god struggles to get the cap off, scowling all the while. When he finally manages, he takes a pill and hands the rest back to be put down again.

“Okay, just checking. That wasn’t one of my favorite weeks, and also a really shitty way to spend Christmas. I’m guessing even more so for you.”

“You guess right. At least you knew what was happening—I just knew that I felt like death warmed over, then hung up to be tortured.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I ever said, but that was a crazy, awesome hiding spot I found you in. I mean, scary, but effective. I wouldn’t have thought of that.”

Loki grins, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. “I’m good at staying hidden.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me—I had to drag you back out without getting killed. I think I might have caused a bit of mayhem, actually, because I kind of fucked with the train system. Majorly. Hope nobody got fired for being late to work.”

“I’m impressed that you made it down there at all. It would be far more difficult for a human when a train passed, since you’re so much lighter.”

“There were a couple times I thought I was dead meat, not gonna lie. I was seriously wishing I’d brought the suit.”

“Well, you’re an idiot. You can’t blame yourself.”

“Excuse me!”

The god chuckles.

“Rude. Maybe if you’d stop being Rapunzel, I wouldn’t have to keep saving your sorry ass. It’s starting to feel like a game of Super Mario Brothers.”

“Super _what_ brothers?”

“It’s a… thing you wouldn’t get. Video game. You kind of need to see to play it.”

“Ah.” There’s a knock, and he looks up. “I swear to the Norns, if that is the Odinson–”

The door swings open to reveal a much more familiar and welcome face.

“Hey, Pep!”

She looks between them, an eyebrow raised. “Am I interrupting something?”

What? Oh, right. In bed together. Things are implied.

“Nah, we were watching a movie—well, I was watching, he was listening—and we fell asleep. What’s up?”

Pepper doesn’t look particularly convinced, but whatever. “I have a couple things I need you to sign in case you go off-grid in the future,” she explains, holding up a clipboard, “and I wanted to see how Loki’s doing, considering I haven’t been around since he woke up.”

He sits to take the papers and the offered pen, flipping through and signing pages where she’s marked for him to do so. Loki yawns lazily and sits as well.

*’*’*

“Greetings, Pepper.”

“You scared us half to death, you realize that, right?”

He looks away, smile falling. “My apologies.”

She sighs. “Well, you’re okay now, right?”

“As well as could be expected, yes.”

“Good. I was going to bring flowers and a card, but I figured since you couldn’t see them, you might like this better.” Pepper hands him a plastic container and he eagerly opens it, grinning when he recognizes the familiar, sweet scent of banana bread.

“You needn’t have brought me anything, but you have my sincere thanks. I appreciate the gift.”

“Where’s _my_  treat?” Stark complains.

“I brought you food when you were in the hospital, and now it’s Loki’s turn. Stop being greedy.”

“Exactly, Stark—don’t be greedy. How are you, Pepper?” He hasn’t seen her in quite some time, and finds that he’s missed the company. They don’t always see eye-to-eye (actually, they usually don’t, and he knows she’s still mad at him for something that happened during the battle, although he doesn’t know what), but she provides enjoyable entertainment and it’s fun to harass Stark together. Plus, sometimes she cooks while she’s in the tower, which is pretty much the only time he and the other man eat well. He’ll cook occasionally, but Midgardian cuisine isn’t his strong suit and he has a bad habit of getting distracted in the workshop and losing track of time.

“Busy. There’s been a lot to do with the company, and a bit of shuffling funds around.”

“Why?”

The bed shifts, and there’s a hint of a smile in Stark’s voice. “Little project of mine I’ve got in the works. I call it _Door Three.”_

Loki understands the implied meaning there, and it’s reassuring—if Pepper is in on it, then it’s not just another one of the man’s ridiculous ideas (not that they’re never good ones, but some of them have been known to backfire rather spectacularly), and it might actually work. He really wishes he could get details out of him, but knowing SHIELD, it’s probably better safe than sorry. He'll know when he needs to.

She ends up staying for a couple hours, chatting about any number of things that are happening in the world and the company. They play a couple card games (Loki is really coming to love the brailled cards that Tony gifted him a couple weeks ago) and it’s fun. He’s smiling most of her visit.

When Pepper does leave, though, he’s exhausted. That’s probably one of the things that irritates him the most right now, because his health is still incredibly sub-par, despite what he’ll show anyone besides Stark.

“Should I start singing lullabies?”

“Oh, do shut up. I’m not actually going to fall asleep.” Being around people is just tiresome, and lying down to close his eyes is fantastic.

“How long do you think it will be until you’re feeling relatively decent?”

“Elaborate, please.”

“Like, able to walk a mile or two, and preferably run if need be.”

He hums thoughtfully. “At least a week, most likely a week and a half. That’s still leaving me on the weaker end, though.”

“Gotcha. Just wondering, because Fury is getting pretty damn unhappy with having you hanging out here… and you might want to start trying to taper off the meds.”

That’s one thing he’s  _really_ not looking forward to. He’s still in a fair amount of pain with the drugs, and even going slowly he’ll have to deal with withdrawal symptoms considering how much he’s been taking. It’s times like these that he really starts missing his potion-making supplies and the herbs he kept for medicinal purposes.

Stark lies down again, and Loki lets himself relax. The mortal has come to register as a sufficiently trustworthy presence around whom dropping one’s guard is of no dire consequence, so he’s content to let the man keep watch while he rests.

*

The following week and a half passes at an agonizingly slow pace, as though the days are dragging their feet lazily as they go. Loki grows increasingly restless as anxiety about the future lurks in the dark corners of his mind, waiting to strike, and it’s all he can do to keep from going mad by the twelfth day. He’s been walking as much as his body can take, trying to get himself back in working order, and struggling through the less pleasant bits of going off methadone slowly—shakiness, cramps, nausea… according to Stark, it’s not particularly helpful at easing the suicidal thoughts that keep nagging at him, either. Things are nowhere near as bad as his adventure into morphine dependence, since the doctors have been keeping an eye on things and he’s not taking as much, but it’s less than fun. Not to mention that he’s still in pain, and lessening his use of the medicine means that it flares up again.

*

Loki’s phone buzzes on the nightstand and he stretches over to reach it.

_**Message received May 23rd, 2014: 7:47pm** _

_Get your boots, knives, and anything else you need. You have five minutes. I’ll be at your room in four and a half._


	35. Exodus

At 7:52pm, the hum of electronics in the room silences and the piercing shriek of a siren cuts through the air.

Stark is at his side in almost the same instant, offering his arm. “We have about three minutes before anyone realizes that alarm wasn’t for someone _outside._ The garage is up on B1, so we’ve gotta split.” The mortal shoves a coat into his hands and a hat onto his head. “Put it on—it’s not much, but with everyone running around it should be enough to keep anyone from looking too hard at us.”

Once he has the garment halfway on, he’s practically dragged down the hallway.

“Are you planning to tell me anything as to what we’re doing, or just leave me in the dark?”

The man laughs, and were it not for the fact that he’s trying not to trip, Loki would punch him. Hard.

“We’re getting out of here, what do you think? Alright, steps–”

Grateful to be able to choose his _own_ pace for a few minutes while they run up the flight of stairs, he finishes pulling the coat on. “Details?”

“Right now, there’s an alleged hostile superhuman threat outside the base on the East side—hence the alarms and general freaking out of everyone around. If we’re lucky, we can hit the garage before anyone notices we’re gone. The Avengers are here, though, and they’ll mobilize as soon as someone finds out so we’ve got to book it.”

That’s not exactly the details he was going for, but it’s something.

When they reach the level Stark’s been aiming for, he manages to slip the attempted grasp of his arm and take the mortal's instead. The sighted never seem to get the fact that it’s infinitely easier to follow than be grabbed and dragged along…

Around them is a cacophony of running agents, blaring sirens, and general confusion. In the hall there are enough people that he brushes up against them occasionally, and every time it makes him jump.

This is possibly his least favorite situation to be in. Wretched mortal.

*’*’*

It’s times like these he wishes he’d brought the iron man suit, because blasting things is a lot easier than trying to sneak past well-trained SHIELD agents, but it would have been kind of conspicuous. He keeps his head down as he speed-walks down the corridor, hoping what he stole for Loki will be good enough. He’d taken a set of SHIELD tactical gear for himself, and keeps the hat down to cover his face a bit. People are so oblivious when things aren’t spelled out for them that hopefully no one will look twice at the slightly Tony-esque agent dragging a war criminal around. How the hell does anyone wear this shit full-time? Clint usually is when he’s on duty or standby, which is ridiculous. T-shirts are so much easier, and nowhere near as stuffy.

There’s a shout nearby, in a slightly-too-familiar voice. Judging from the look on Loki’s face he heard it too.

“In here,” he hisses at the god as he grabs the handle of the nearest door, waiting a half-second for Jarvis to unlock it, and drags him inside.

“I don’t like the Captain being so close, Stark,” Loki tells him warily.

“Yeah? Me neither. Can you hear him through the wal–”

The god clamps a hand over his mouth and closes his eyes, leaning heavily against the door. They stand like that for a minute or two as adrenaline surges through his veins.

“Alright,” the god whispers, “he’s down the connecting hallway by the drinking fountain.”

He’s not going to ask how Loki can tell that, but freaky god shit so whatever. Thankfully the door latch isn’t really audible over the incessant mayhem nearby. Tony pulls him down the hall and around the corner, where he finds a control unit mounted in the wall.

Bingo, baby.

Jarvis is already wiping the video footage in real-time, but they need a distraction a little further away to get Steve off their tail. Fortunately for them, Tony happens to be brilliant, and can code faster than any of his graduating class.

Accessing the command line isn’t very hard if you know how SHIELD’s system works (which he does, since he built it), and a little tomfoolery and twelve lines of code are all it takes to plant a slightly-too-conspicuous virus a few halls away. Someone should catch it soon enough.

Loki grumbles about being dragged along, but honestly he’s going to have to deal. The Avengers found out about their escape a little too soon from the looks of things, and that’s going to make this all a _lot_ riskier. He’s already taking a few chances with this that he doesn’t want to be.

“Head down,” he warns the god. A few moments later a group of agents runs past, thankfully not looking too closely at who’s headed the other way.

“How much further until we’re out of the base?”

“Up a floor, down the hall, around the corner, and up a half-flight of stairs. We’re almost there.”

He gets a nod in return. How the hell Loki walks as lightly as he does is beyond him, but he’s really starting to wish the god could see, because their exit strategy would be a lot different (and a lot safer) if so. They could have been a lot more discreet that way, and no doubt Loki knows a few good ways to remain unnoticed.

Plus, y’know, blindness probably sucks.

They’re halfway to the stairs when everything goes to hell.

“Tony Stark, Loki Odinson! Hands in the air and stand down!”

Shit.

“Barton, just run back to Fury and say you couldn’t find us. This doesn’t have to get messy.”

“No, you’re right, it doesn’t. So come back nicely and I won’t shoot.” He has his bow steady, drawn and aimed at Loki, although he’s currently glaring at Tony. Clint rocks the outfit way better than him, which isn’t cool. Not that any of this is particularly cool.

“Last chance, buddy. I like you, I really do.”

“Explain to me, Stark, why you’re risking everything like this, for _him.”_

He levels the archer with a look that’s probably a lot calmer than he’s feeling right now. “It’s really pretty simple—because he’s my friend, and I take care of the people I care about.”

“He’s the _enemy,_ Stark, not some kid at daycare.”

“Neither was Tasha, but that didn’t seem to faze you when you brought her in.”

“This isn’t a game of politics.”

“Nope. And don’t pretend that it was with her, first of all, because I’ve read the files, but like I said—it’s simple. Loki is my friend. Now back the hell down, final warning.”

Clint takes a step forward, which is his big mistake. Before he can react, Tony raises the handgun he’d drawn and racked while the archer was distracted and takes a shot at his leg (as carefully as he can to not hit anything important, because he does like the guy when they’re not trying to kill each other), shoving Loki toward the wall and out of the way as the arrow looses. There’s a solid thud when it buries itself in the wall behind them.

He grabs Loki’s arm and runs for the stairs, hearing Clint call for backup as he climbs back to his feet—which can’t be healthy, but he’s him, so Tony can’t really judge—and shouts at Jarvis to lock the stairwell doors once they’re through.

“You just–” Loki pants, “just shot him.”

“In the leg, so hopefully no long-term injuries, but yeah. I shot him. Go!”

The god takes off up the stairs, although he’s definitely slowing.

“Hang in there, Rudolph.”

For a moment it looks like Loki’s going to snark back, but apparently he thinks better of it and just keeps moving. When they reach the top, Tony lets him take his arm again, and walks as quickly as he thinks the god can safely manage toward the garage, gun in hand.

“Jarv, get the door unlocked for me,” he calls, and like the great AI that he is, Jarvis has it open by the time his hand hits the doorknob. It locks again behind them. Tony pulls Loki toward one of the SUVs, and the god finds the passenger side himself while he starts it with a key he swiped off one of the newer agents when they weren’t paying attention. Seriously, some of the people SHIELD hires need a bit more training.

“Buckle up, Dasher, because we’re going to break a few laws here.”

“What, worried someone will ticket us?”

“Ha ha, very funny.” While the god is still in the process of making their escape slightly less illegal, he floors it. Gunfire sounds behind them after the door is broken open, but it’s too late—they’re far enough away that nobody lands a shot.

*’*’*

“What now? You know they’re going to be hunting us like prey.”

“Yep, I know. Which is why there are going to be three Stark planes flying out of Las Vegas tonight. One to Nova Scotia, one to Paraguay, and one to Singapore.”

Loki hums thoughtfully. “And which will we be on?”

“None of them,” Stark laughs. “We’re switching cars and heading to Utah.”

“Impressive; you have my approval.” He winces, the pain in his chest surging up again.

“You alright?”

“Yes, Stark,” Loki says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I just _love_ sprinting through a building full of people out to kill me before I’m fully recovered. I’m doing _fantastically."_

“Well, you’re obviously fine if you can still snark that much.”

He sighs and tilts his seat back—it’s stiff and overworn, but at least they’re not running around anymore. Stark can have fun driving. Loki’s exhausted.

This is absolutely ridiculous. He should be walking the branches of Yggdrasil right now, stepping onto another realm with the mortal shaking behind him, not out of breath in the passenger seat while Stark drives. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ lack of magic. He pulls off the glasses, tucking them into a coat pocket, and closes his eyes in an attempt to fight back the sick feeling he’s getting from the acceleration combined with the methadone’s effects.

A hand rests on his leg gently.

“We’re gonna go to Salt Lake City—we should be able to get there early tomorrow afternoon—and take a commercial jet out of the country from there. SHIELD has fewer resources outside the States, so until I can convince the Avengers that we’re not dangerous to the general public, we’re safer off-grid abroad.”

“Where are we going?” he asks, turning his head toward the mortal.

“To meet up with a friend of ours. You might remember him making a hole in the concrete with you?”

Loki shudders. Oh, Norns… “Please tell me you’re not talking about who I think you’re talking about.”

“Who, Bruce? Because I’m talking about Bruce.”

He groans.

“Oh, shut up. It’ll be fine, he’s cool. Just don’t stand behind him and poke him in the side for a few hours straight, no worries.”

“And where exactly is he located at present? You never said, I just know he wasn’t at the base.”

“Somewhere cold,” Stark replies, turning onto a larger road from the sound of things. “Russia. Amursk, specifically—Bruce is out there doing medical shit. He likes helping people because he can; he’s a lot better of a person than I am.”

Loki puts the window down a bit, relishing the first bit of cool fresh air he’s tasted in far, _far_ too long. It’s actually a bit of a heady rush, making him feel a thousand times more alive, and the difference is staggering. He smiles. “I don’t know, Stark. You’ve sacrificed a bit for me, you’re not a bad man by any means.”

“Aww, coming from you, that’s practically being knighted.”

“Oh shut up, idiot mortal.”

“When Hammer’s tech works. Hey, speaking of tech, how’s the reactor holding up for you?”

He scowls, rubbing it absentmindedly. “It hurts. You _cut out part of my sternum,_ Stark, it’s not the most pleasant of circumstances. Was yours this deep?”

“Are you kidding me? That’s, like, the ultra-slim version. Mine was at least four times it, don’t complain.”

“I’m surprised you’re still alive.”

“Yeah, well, so am I. I shouldn’t be, not considering how much shrapnel they ended up pulling from my chest when I finally got that fucker out. Speaking of, getting past the TSA with you is going to be hell.”

“Explain? I’ve only heard offhanded mentions of the topic…”

Stark drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “What, airport security?”

Loki nods.

“Alright, so, you’ll figure it out pretty quickly, but essentially you’re not allowed to bring certain shit onto the plane—that means going through a metal detector. It’s bad enough for me, considering how much metal I’ve got holding my bones together, but you’ve kind of got a super high-powered electromagnet in your chest.”

“And the goal is not to draw attention, isn’t it.” Naturally.

“Yep. On the plus side, we can use the fact that you’re blind to our advantage if you’re not above it.”

“Not at all. If there’s one thing you should never do, it’s underestimate the lengths to which I’ll go and the heights to which I’ll stoop to suit my ends.”

“Good point. I guess the same goes for me—I wound up stealing a poncho off a wooden indian last winter.”

He laughs, although it ends in a yawn. Stark squeezes his leg, a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Get some shut-eye, Blitzen.”

“I don’t –”

“Sleep,” the mortal tells him firmly. “Make your jokes later—you need the rest. I’m trying to keep on back roads where SHIELD will have a harder time tracking us, but we’re going to have to switch cars in not too long, and then once we’re at the train station I have no idea what’ll happen. You’re still healing. Use the time we’ve got.”

Loki relents and closes his eyes again, resting his hand over the man’s where it sits comfortingly on his knee.

“Wake me if there’s anything I can do of aid, yes?”

“Yep, ‘course. And if there’s trouble, I’ll let you know. Just get some rest.”

He smiles, and lets his body slowly relax.

*’*’*

It doesn’t slip his notice how easily the god falls asleep, because he’s seen the wariness that’s usually in his eyes. The longer they’ve spent together the easier Loki relaxes around him, but it’s only after the… _incident_ that he’s gotten this trusting. It’s like he doesn’t even think twice about it, which is saying something. Even suicidal, Loki is instinctually a survivor. It’s a weird dichotomy.

The god’s hand is cool over his own—a reminder of why he’s doing this. Why he’s risking a hell of a lot more than he’s trying to think about.

Because Loki needs him to.

Shit, he’s awful at responsibility.

Jarvis flashes a route change on his phone and he pulls a quick left, hearing helicopters go by over the road they’d just been on. SHIELD’s a little too good at this shit. Not that he’s going to tell the god how close on their tail the bastards are, because the last thing he needs is more anxiety on his plate right now, but Fury’s pissed. It was only a matter of time before the threats lost their effect. Sure, he could start making good on them, but he wasn’t going to start taking anyone out while Loki was stuck inside the base. He’s not _that_ stupid. They’re not facing consequences until the pair of them are out of range.

Then Fury can find out just how badly he’s fucked up by crossing him.

Over the past two weeks, his chats with the Director have been getting more heated and tense. The one this morning is the one that had tipped the scales—when Tony’d insisted that Loki stay on Earth, even if it was in custody, Fury had threatened the god’s life. How serious he was it’s hard to tell, but Tony doesn’t take chances.

SHIELD’s going to face consequences for that.

Loki doesn’t need to know that, though, at least not right now. Not until he’s back in shape enough to defend himself.

Fog rolls in slowly, a wave of grey and white mist that clouds the landscape around them and throws the SUV’s high beams back into his eyes. Flicking them down to low, he sends a silent thank-you to whatever force of nature decided to do that, because it’ll help keep them hidden. With SHIELD’s computers compromised, the Avengers have to rely on more traditional means to track them down, while Tony’s got pretty much every piece of internet-connected tech in the area at his disposal thanks to Jarvis’ reach.

There’s a little gas station on the corner of the dirt road, with a convenience store that beckons with the promise of food for the trip. He parks off in a darker corner (because, seriously, who slaps the logo for their semi-secret government agency on the side of everything?).

“Hey, Donder,” Tony says quietly, rubbing the god’s arm. “Rise and shine.”

“What if I don’ wanna…?” Loki mumbles sleepily.

He laughs. “Then you don’t get to choose a not-really-midnight-yet snack. Plus it’s probably good if you stretch your legs, not to mention the fact that there’s a pretty little charcoal Golf R a couple parking spots over that I’ve got my eye on as a replacement for the SHIELD-mobile.”

“Resorting to theft now, are we?”

“I mean, if I’m gonna be a criminal, go hard or go home, right?”

The god yawns and unbuckles his seatbelt. “I suppose so. How much further do we have to drive?”

“Five or six hours. We’re just outside Vegas right now.” He turns off the SUV and climbs out to open Loki’s door (although all it does is get him snarked at because the god is completely capable of doing it himself, thank you very much), then grabs his backpack out of the back seat. “Brought you something, by the way.”

Loki happily takes the folding cane he’d gotten for him—it’s something that’s been irritating the god for weeks, even though he’d been adamant (for obvious reasons, really) that Tony not let anyone catch on that he’s blind.  “Give me just a moment, before we start causing trouble?” he requests, leaning the cane against the car door.

“Yeah, sure. Why?”

The god rolls his eyes and pulls out one of his shorter knives. “Because long hair is not as common for men here as it is on Asgard. SHIELD is looking for a man with long hair,” he explains, slicing his ponytail off at the nape of his neck. “This will make me slightly less memorable. Not that the cane doesn’t impair that slightly, considering nobody knows I’m blind, that might actually be a good thing.”

It’s a little surprising how easily Loki cut his hair, considering the care he’s always taken of it, but Tony supposes that with a couple thousand years under his belt it’s probably not the end of the world to grow it back. From the way the god trims the remaining into something a bit neater, he’d hazard to guess that it’s not the first time Loki’s done it, either.

Seriously, though, does Asgard not have scissors?

Either way, the god tucks the knife back into his waistband and picks up the cane once more. “Now,” he says, brushing off his shirt, "I believe you said something about food?"

"Of _course_ that's what you hone in on," he replies with an eye roll. "Yeah, there's a little shop. C'mon."

Loki takes his arm and they walk into the building. It's a bit gaudy and run-down, and the florescent in the corner flickers with an annoying buzz, but seems clean enough.

"Anything in particular sound good?"

The god thinks for a moment. "Do they have Cheerios?"

"Wow, boring much?"

That earns him a look. "Perhaps, but as much as I'd love something more, I'm trying not to eat _too_ unhealthily while I'm healing. Besides, they're good."

"Alright, alright, Mr. Lame Pants. Here you go. _I'm_ gonna get a candy bar or two." He turns, and sees a rack of T-shirts. "Bingo."

"What?"

"Change of clothes. Much as I love wandering around in heavy-ass tactical gear, a normal coat sounds awesome."

"Ah, I see."

"No you don't."

"By the Nine, fool… I'll cut out your tongue."

"Nah,” he replies with a laugh. “You like me too much for that."

*'*'*

The air in the convenience store is cool and stale, suspended with the traces of cigarette smoke (which makes him want to choke, but he represses it). Loki’s content to just follow the mortal where he leads, enjoying the chance to stretch and feel a bit or relative freedom. Apparently Stark catches on.

“Someone’s happy,” the man comments while he pays for the various bags of snacks, stack of clothing, cheap-feeling backpack, and four-dollar sunglasses.

“Mm,” Loki agrees with a nod, “it’s good to no longer be bed-ridden. I’d missed the night breeze.”

“How long has it been for you, actually? I didn’t really think about that before.”

“Since I’ve been outside? Well… two months, -ish? I’m not entirely sure, but around then.”

“And that was, what, the little incident?”

He looks away, cheeks flushing slightly. “Yeah.”

“What about before then?”

“Um…” Loki bites his lip in thought. “I don’t know. Another couple, probably, although I was on the balcony a few times.”

“Fuck—yeah, thanks, have a nice day. No, keep the change—really?”

He just shrugs.

“Damn, Donder. No wonder you’re psycho.”

“Thanks.”

“No, but seriously, you’ve been cooped up _that_ long? I didn’t even think about it, but shit. Sorry. I should’ve paid more attention.”

Stark drags him toward the bathroom to change, so he follows and takes the offered clothing. “You’re not my mother, idiot mortal. I am able to look after myself.” With that, he takes first dibs and goes to put on the slightly-baggy jeans that make him miss his from back at the tower. He ends up in a long-sleeved shirt, and a coat that’s not quite his fashion but will work fine. To be entirely honest, he’s not paying all that much attention—clothes are clothes at this point, and he’s not that picky. It’s a temporary measure of disguise until they can find something better, and he trusts the mortal’s judgement on things.

“Aww, look at you,” Stark says when he comes out, “all boring and American.”

“Please tell me there’s not a flag emblazoned across my chest or anything right now.”

“Unfortunately no, although now you’re making me want to switch your clothes out so that there is. I totally would if it weren’t for the fact that we’re not staying in the area. Besides, since when do they print shit on flannel? You just need an axe and some stubble and you’ll totally rock the lumberjack look. No, nonono–! I have a better idea!” The man scurries off, and comes back with a hat that he apparently believes Loki to be incapable of putting on himself.

“Bam! Hipster.”

He raises an eyebrow, fixing the hair that was displaced in the mortal’s harassment. “Do I want to know?”

“Probably not, no, but it’s hilarious. Just go with it, and give me a sec to get my own shit on.”

While he changes, Loki peruses the bags the mortal handed him and tries to figure out what he’s bought. Considering that most things are bagged themselves, it’s hard to say. Oh well.

A couple minutes later, Stark comes back out and takes them back so that Loki can have a free hand to be guided. Instead of going back to the SUV, the mortal takes him toward what must be the other car.

“Alright, stay quiet, and get ready to get in as soon as I’ve got this puppy open.”

It’s only a matter of seconds before the locks open with a clunk and the door will open at his touch (which Stark praises Jarvis for), and then the man is doing something or another under the hood that he assumes involves wires bypassing certain components, but doesn’t really know. His efforts in the workshop were on other forms of more personal, flight-capable transport—cars are rather useless when you can’t see to drive them.

Whatever he does, it must work, because another few moments of fiddling with things inside the car and it roars to life.

“Ready to commit grand theft auto?”

“That sounds rather enjoyable to me, as a matter of fact. Just in case, you know, the government was still trying to find a reason to throw us into prison to rot for the next millennium.”

It’s not hard to hear the grin the man has when Jarvis announces that he’s fully hacked into the store’s system and Loki hears the outside lights click off.  “Fantastic.”

There’s an angry shout behind them as Stark takes off down the road with his foot to the floor, the engine growling low and loud.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Loki's hair, think Agent of Asgard. Just, y'know, slightly more cut-by-a-blind-guy-with-a-knife-in-a-gas-station-parking-lot.


	36. Concourse B

“Alright, so, you’re gonna have to lose the knives, buddy,” Tony tells the god as he pulls the knife from his own sleeve. And, yeah, he’s been carrying it pretty much since he got it—it proved useful in a pinch, after all.

It’s with great, visible regret that Loki starts collecting the shining steel blades that line his clothing.

“And the one in your boot,” he prompts.

The god huffs in annoyance and forfeits that one as well.

“Any more?”

“No.”

“Are you being honest right now? Because I’m not taking them because I want to—they’ve got metal detectors, body scanners, and if they think there’s something fishy, they’ll pat you down. They might anyway, since you’re half robot now.”

“I am not _half_ robot, you idiot,” he says with a scowl, but pulls another knife from under his pant leg. “Satisfied?”

“Yes, thank you.” There’s no effort made on Loki’s part to hide the fact that he’s unhappy with the situation as Tony packs his blades carefully into the black leather bag he’d brought from the tower. “Look, I know you don’t like wandering around without a weapon, but _nobody_ is allowed to have anything past security. Except for the, y’know, security, but try to have a little faith in the system since we don’t really have a choice.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“Dude. I’d rate you as a million times more dangerous than some terrorist with a bomb any day; you _are_ a fucking weapon. Once we’re over the Russian border, you get them back. Okay?”

Loki doesn’t reply, opting instead to tuck his cane under his arm and sling the carry-on bag Tony had grabbed at the gas station over his shoulder.

Tony ruffles the god’s hair (which is still ridiculously soft, it’s like touching fucking cashmere or something) reassuringly before offering his arm. “Try to chill, everything’s going to be fine. We’re in the home stretch and I’m not going to let anything happen to you, okay?”

The god looks towards him for a moment, confusion swirling in his storm-grey eyes, but eventually gives a small, slightly sad smile and an almost imperceptible nod as he slips the gas-station sunglasses on.

“I know it’s not easy for you, and I get that—it’s not for me either—but try to trust me, okay? I know everything that’s happened with SHIELD has you spooked, even if you won’t admit it outright, and I’m not going to think badly of you. It would have freaked me out too, because they really pulled some fucked-up shit. And I don’t know what happened with Thor either,” he says, and the god flinches, “but you know I’ll listen if you ever want to talk about it.”

“Try as I might, Stark, I cannot even begin to comprehend your mind.”

“Which is why you can stand living with me, let’s face it; you’d get bored and fed up with someone who made total sense all the time.”

Loki takes his arm (thankfully a bit more gentle this time, because Tony’s pretty sure he’s got bruises from their little jailbreak maneuver) and he starts walking to the entrance of the airport. It’s irritatingly busy, because naturally school is just getting out, and within a minute or two the god looks absolutely bewildered from the cacophony that surrounds them.

“Welcome to the airport, a.k.a. the most ridiculous, chaotic mayhem that has ever been mayhemed.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Is there _anything_ you like?”

He thinks for a moment. “Killing people.”

Holy shit, the look on the god’s face is _way_ too calm to be saying that. Please dear lord say that’s a joke.

“Right, um, file that under things not to say at an airport. Along with anything else related to murder or terrorism, I’m being totally serious here. That’s like the number one way to end up surrounded by very unhappy TSA agents, and potentially in handcuffs.”

“Mortals,” Loki says derisively. “So overly concerned with their perceived value of life.”

“Asgard is one freaky-ass place, and your thoughts on offing people are just plain scary. Here, you’re going to need these–” He pulls out a passport, visa, and ticket with fake names on them, handing them to the god and giving a brief rundown of their use while walking to the baggage check station. Loki nods, still a bit distracted by the commotion, and jumps when someone brushes past him.

“I hate lines,” the god complains not long after they join the queue.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Wow, whiny much? You’d better get used to it, because we’re in for a lot of them.”

He huffs. “We don’t use such silly things on Asgard, and I’m not used to having to wait on people. Being prince usually means getting to skip ahead of the commoners and court.”

“Well, welcome to the human world. We like life, lines, and long walks on the beach at sunset.”

That earns a chuckle from the god, and Tony smiles.

The line moves slowly (as lines always seem to), which means Loki grows more and more antsy, so he starts telling stories of crazy college escapades. In return he hears of an incident involving four goats, a cask of ale, and a virgin maiden. They’re both laughing so hard they’re practically in tears by the time they reach the counter and Loki’s decided that lines aren’t quite as bad as he’d originally deemed them to be. The lady in a blue vest who’s taking their bag looks at them a little funny, but Tony doesn’t care. He’s used to weird looks.

“C’mon, Comet, time to introduce you to the insanity of security.”

“Oh, Norns…”

*’*’*

He really doesn’t like this place. It’s too loud, throwing off his sense of direction, and people keep half running into him. The second line is far longer and slower than the first, filled with crying babies and unshowered college students, and he wants to punch something. Or someone—that’s even better. Maybe the woman behind them with the obnoxious voice who keeps yelling at her boyfriend through her cell phone about not getting her the right brand of boots, because she’s really starting to get on his nerves. Stark seems to sense this, though, and rests a hand over his on his arm.

“Easy there, your Majesty. Play nice.”

Loki looks over at him, a smug smile creeping across his features. “I could get used to you calling me that. It’s certainly better than the reindeer names.”

“Ooh, kinky.”

“You are absolutely insufferable, you idiot fool.”

“Hey, you started it. Are you sure you don’t have some deep, dark, repressed sexual deviancy going on? Because that seemed awfully like a Freudian slip to me…”

He rolls his eyes. “I am fairly certain, Stark. I simply enjoy being afforded the respect my status deserves.”

“I’m not buying it, sorry. Say what you want, I know the truth.” Tony can’t help but laugh at the god’s expression, because it’s freaking hilarious. Like, somehow he’s managed to mix concern, repulsion, and exasperation into one.

“All things considered, from what I’ve heard, _you’re_ the deviant one here. Promiscuity of my youth aside, I’ve heard far worse stories about you.”

“Ooh, see, _this_ is a story I need to hear.”

“What, my adolescent escapades?”

There’s a pause.

“Are you doing it _again?"_

“Doing what?”

“Giving me a look instead of an answer. In case you’ve forgotten, you look rather black to me. Along with everything else.” Loki’s lip curls up into a smirk.

“Oh, shut up. And yes, I’m talking about your crazy teenage years, now spill.”

He snickers. “I may have a bit of a, ah, _reputation_ on Asgard.”

“What, were you like the palace slut or something?”

“You could say that. I may or may not have had something to prove, and wanted to outdo Thor at something… mother was less than thrilled, and father was incessantly angry because he feared the possibility of bastard children, but Thor was jealous. Consider it my teenage rebellion phase.”

The mortal doubles over laughing. “Yeah, because that’s the most rebellious thing you’ve ever done.”

“Well, I mean,” he looks over sheepishly, “I may have been known for essentially grabbing whoever was on hand and dragging them back to my room. Or out into the gardens. Or into a dark corner… I wasn’t very discriminatory. It was only a few years of that, just long enough to rub it in that I was a better lover than Thor, but the reputation stuck for centuries afterwards. Admittedly not my most proud memories, but nonetheless.”

Stark is still cackling. Really? It’s not _that_ amusing. He tells the mortal as much.

“No, no, but it _is_ though! Because wild, party kid Lo–” The man catches himself, remembering that they’re using false names for the time being. “–Lachlan, I mean, oh my _god!_ The fact that I can imagine that probably isn’t a good sign. On a scale from one to ten, how drunk did you get?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Which time? Honestly, with the availability of wine, mead, and ale… enough to figure out a hangover-remedy potion. Like I said, though, it was only a few years. Maybe a decade, two at most. I’ve grown to appreciate moderation now—it’s been a long time since I was properly drunk. Thor, however, never seemed to learn his lesson. You’d be surprised how much he’s willing to promise in exchange for a sip of that potion.”

“You are _awesome,_ have I ever told you that?”

“Repeatedly, although I still think you’re delusional. Must you really keep laughing?”

“Dude, _you_ were _me._ I love it.”

Loki just rolls his eyes. It’s not like it should really be that surprising, all things considered, although he’d done it more to irritate Thor than anything. The sex was fine, but nothing to write home about. It was mainly for appearances. “Your sense of humor is abysmal.”

“I know, but it’s still funny. See, those stories are way funnier than the ‘we rode forth into a glorious battle and conquered a species’ things.”

“Yes, they’re _funnier,_ but those are quite good too. I have fought many a great war and led many a charge.”

“Wait, you guys throw royalty onto the front line?”

He gives  the man a curious look. “Well, of course. Who else would lead?”

“Um, the slightly more expendables? I mean, that’s kind of the most dangerous place to be—putting the rulers there is a little risky, isn’t it?”

Mortals.

“Your kind do things so strangely. It is a king’s or prince’s duty to ride first, to protect their people and be honorable leaders, and a true warrior faces death with dignity. We fight with all we are, or die trying. The fact that your president and politicians hide behind other agents and soldiers is disgraceful through the eyes of my culture.”

“Weird.”

“Only as weird as you are to me.”

The line moves forward, and Stark goes to talk to the man at the counter, or desk, or whatever it is they’ve been waiting for. After a moment the mortal reaches back and tugs on his sleeve, guiding him forward.

“Identification and boarding pass?” the man asks.

Stark indicates two of the documents in his hand. “Those ones.”

He hands them over, pulling his attention away from the child a handful of people back who’s throwing a fit about not being able to take all of her stuffed animals on the plane. There’s a scratch of marker on paper, then Stark taps his fingers with the little book and he takes them back.

“Have a nice day.”

From there it’s right back into another line (and he makes his thoughts on that fact known).

“Alrighty, Donder. Ready for the fun part?”

Loki sighs. “Why do I have a sinking feeling that you don’t mean fun at all?”

“Because it’s airport security, and therefore one of the most irritatingly obnoxious things in the world.” Since they’re not moving, the mortal shrugs off his hand for a moment to do something or another. “Coat, shoes, and anything metal have to come off, and it’s easier to do that now while we’re waiting, trust me. Anything in your pockets comes out, too.”

“This is absolutely ridiculous.”

“Yep. And just to double-check, you’re not carrying anything questionable, are you? Specifically your fancy forged shit, but really anything like that. Trust me, they’ve got the tech to know.”

He sighs, distinctly unhappy with that specific requirement. “No, I am not.” They move forward a bit before stopping and Loki kneels to unfasten his gaiters, running his fingers down the front to find the cool metal snaps. They come apart easily in his hands, and his boots don’t take long to remove either. He’s finished by the time the line resumes its movement. Stark helps him when they reach the front so that he isn’t groping about for the plastic bins, which is nice of him.

“Belt and watch go in, cane too,” the mortal prompts, and so with much irritation he complies.

There’s a whir of rollers while Stark pushes the buckets to what he’s told is a scanner of some sort, then after a moment’s wait for the people in front of them pads forward.

There’s a loud beeping, and a familiar sigh before he goes to speak with the woman who’s working their line.

“Hey, Lachlan,” he calls.

Loki glances up.

“Since neither of us are gonna get through the metal detector without setting it off, and you’ve got all sorts of wacky going on with your pacemaker, you mind doing a private pat-down?”

He laughs quietly, quirking an eyebrow. “Are you propositioning me?”

“You know it,” the mortal responds sarcastically. When he hesitates, Stark fairly immediately understands. “I can still be your guide, you’re allowed to bring someone.”

As long as he doesn’t have to follow around someone he’s never met before he’s fine with it, so he nods and reaches for the man’s arm.

“He’s got kind of a funky medical implant situation,” Stark says to the new agent when they reach the room. “Lassie, he’s not supposed to ask you to take off anything, but unbuttoning your shirt might make things easier.”

Loki hums in acknowledgement and does as the mortal suggests, although he shoots him a questioning look for the nickname. He is admittedly a bit self-conscious about the entire thing, considering the circumstances, and can only imagine what the scars look like—let alone the device in his chest.

To his credit, he only blushes a little. He’s always been rather vain.

“Miniaturized arc reactor,” Loki explains when the agent doesn’t say anything for a moment. “It’s an experimental medical device, that works like a pacemaker except significantly stronger.”

Another beat of silence.

“Do you have any way to prove that it’s medical in nature?”

Stark tells the man he has a card from the surgeon, which the agent looks at, but doesn’t seem entirely convinced by.

“Lassie, you trust me, right?”

“Yes,” he answers honestly, only realizing after the fact how disconcerting it is that it’s such an easy reply.

The air warms slightly in front of him when Stark approaches, and the TSA agent’s footsteps follow his. There’s a light pressure on his chest, which makes him wince, then a click. When he realizes what the mortal is doing, his breath catches in a moment of panic.

“Woah, hey, Rudolph—not gonna hurt you. It’s okay.”

Metal slides on metal as the reactor disengages  from its casing, and Loki takes a breath to reorder his mind. At least the room is quiet. That helps a little. Besides, the only two present are Stark and the agent who, judging by the sound of his footsteps, is a bit out-of-shape. Stark won’t hurt him, and the other man will be easy enough to take out in the case of a threat. Slowly, he forces his body to relax.

It’s not long before he can feel the device being slotted back into place, and it locks with a snick.

“Good?” Stark asks the agent, and he’s guessing he nods from the fact that there’s no continuation of the explanation. “Cool.”

The mortal starts buttoning his shirt for him, which is completely unnecessary, so he swats his hands away and does it himself.

“Alright, buddy, have fun feeling me up,” Stark exclaims. “I mean, him too, but I’m obviously the sexier of us.”

Apparently the other man either doesn’t have a sense of humor or doesn’t find the comment in good taste, because it largely goes ignored in favor of a slightly too tactile inspection of Loki’s person. Are mortals truly so concerned with people taking things onto their flying contraptions? From Stark’s brief overview of the terrorists they’re trying to stop, this is hardly going to be effective against anyone relatively intelligent, not to mention that there are far, _far_ easier and effective ways to take down a plane without a bomb if you have even a little bit of imagination.

Granted, he probably fits into their description of a terrorist, but he isn’t planning to blow anything up or start killing anyone in any fashion for the time being.

Finally the man finishes with both he and Stark, and they are allowed to return to their things. The mortal leads him to a worn metal bench so he can pull his boots and coat back on, and does the same beside him.

“Hey, give me your arm for a sec?”

“I thought _I_ was the one supposed to be collecting limbs for my lair, not you,” he replies with a chuckle while he finishes fastening his gaiter.

“Oh, shut up, if I want an evil lair then I can have one too.”

Loki relents and holds his arm out towards Stark, and the man snaps something cool and metal around his wrist.

“Medical ID bracelet, in case something happens. Not that I’m expecting anything to, but if for some reason we ever get separated and you’re unconscious or speaking Asgardian, I don’t want people fucking with the arc reactor. It’s got my, Pepper’s, Rhodey’s, and the doctor at SHIELD’s numbers on the back as contacts, since we’re the four who know how it works and how to get the plans for it, and also the only people I trust to be working with it. I’d say Bruce, too, but right now he doesn’t have the access codes. Also says to avoid morphine if possible, and not to give blood transfusions.”

“Who are you, my mother?”

“Good god I hope not. You’re kind of a walking train wreck right now, though, no offense, and I’d prefer you don’t end up dead because some idiot decided to give you human blood.” The man offers his arm again when Loki stands, and they make their way further into the (obnoxiously loud and busy) building. “Honestly, Thor’s was risky enough, and I’m surprised it worked. Thankful, but surprised.”

He freezes mid-step, almost getting pulled off-balance when Stark doesn’t stop as suddenly. _“What?”_

The mortal has the grace to sound at least a little bit sheepish. “Oh, right, I thought I’d mentioned it—you might be slightly more family with Thor now, although your body seemed to be burning through his stuff pretty quickly, so I’m not sure how much stuck.”

“You–?” Cue a bit of an overload of emotions, because that’s probably worse than the arc reactor. Anger swells in his chest, but so do memories of pain and abandonment that he’s been desperately trying to push to the back of his mind.

Stark turns to face him, voice serious. “Loki. You were dying, and there wasn’t time to try to track down someone who we knew for sure would have compatible blood. Thor’s was a shot in the dark, but he agreed to let us use it, and it worked. Trust me, I knew it wouldn’t be your first pick, but I was kind of desperate and out of options. You were too far gone to wait.” There’s a note of desperation there, like he was actually scared, and Loki’s not entirely sure what to make of that. As many times as the mortal insists otherwise, people don’t go out of their way to help him. People don’t care about his well-being. People fear _him,_ not his passing.

“You utter _anomaly,”_ he spits, crossing arms in front of his chest and glaring like it will somehow help make sense of things. Stark consistently defies all understanding, breaking what he’s come to accept as laws of Yggdrasil like it’s the most normal thing in the realms. His words, his actions, his emotions… they’re illogical, and he hates that. Loki is good at reading people—it’s always been a gift of his and the reason he is so good at manipulation—but the fool makes him feel illiterate. He _hates_ that.

A hand comes to rest on the small of his back, the mortal’s body heat seeping through the flannel of his shirt and radiating across his skin. “You’re making that face again, the one that means you’re overthinking things.”

“Your actions are completely nonsensical, and it is maddening. I cannot decipher your motivations.”

There’s a pause. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

Don’t get what?

“Loki, I’ve said it a thousand times before since you keep asking me why, but I honestly care about you, okay? I don’t just go around breaking random people out of high-security government facilities or inviting drug addicts off the street to live with me. I don’t know what sort of shit you’ve been through in the past, or how many people have fucked you over, but believe it or not there are people who do genuinely like you. Pepper is risking being accused of high treason to get you out of the country safely,” Stark tells him, lowering his voice so passersby can’t overhear. “And not because I made her; she volunteered. So at the very least, there are two of us who have seriously invested ourselves in your well-being because we  _want_ to. This isn’t us trying to make you owe us a debt, because I don’t expect anything, but because we fucking care, okay? You said you trust me, so trust me on _that.”_

“I’m not a good person, Stark.”

“Nope. You’re not. But you’re not a bad person either, and I fit the same description. I’ve seen how fucked up you are, all the cracks and the madness, and I like you anyway. So deal with it.”

He’s not really sure how to respond to that—as many times as the mortal has said that or something similar, he just can’t understand what it means. “Caring is weakness,” Loki eventually replies.

“Probably, yeah. I mean, I’m now most likely number two on SHIELD’s most-wanted list, right behind you, but it doesn’t mean I’m going to stop.”

With a sigh, he turns to take the mortal’s arm again. “Let’s just go, okay? It would be detrimental if we were to miss the boarding of our plane.”

Stark starts walking, his footsteps a quiet scuff of rubber on linoleum that he hones in on to block out some of the ambient mayhem. “What the hell happened to you, Loki?” the man asks softly, and he’s not sure if it’s meant to be answered or not.

*’*’*

Note to self: being nice to Loki cues an emotional meltdown and existential crisis.

He really should have learned this by now.

Thankfully they don’t have far to go, but it’s still an uncomfortably silent walk that’s punctuated by the god jumping at random things he can’t pick out among the din. Every time he does, Tony can see the frustration building on Loki’s face and in the tension of his shoulders. The hand twitch has returned, he notices, likely because the entire situation has stressed the god out more than he tries to let on. It’s probably a good sign that they’ve been living together for too long if he can pick up on the little changes in how Loki carries himself and reacts to things that mean he’s scared or anxious, because he covers it well.

“Okay, so, we’ve got first-class the whole way, but we’re stuck with two connecting flights and three different airlines. American’s first-class is kind of dumb compared to the others, but it’s only a two-hour flight down to Los Angeles. The layovers are going to be a bit of a bitch, but Incheon’s not too bad… I’ve had way worse flights.”

“How long until our flight leaves?”

“Two hours. We’re a little early, because catching a flight from here to Khabarovsk isn’t exactly a nonstop deal, but I ate up a bit of time on the road trying to make sure we lost SHIELD. According to Jarvis, they’re nowhere near here—the whole flying-out-of-Vegas thing seems to have them occupied, which is really pretty stupid of them when you think about it.”

“And which gate is ours?”

“We’re almost there, it’s the next one down. B10.”

“I’ll meet you back here in half an hour or so,” the god tells him, unfolding his cane.

Wait, what? “Back up the truck a sec, there, Blitzen—one second you’re freaking out and the next you’re just wandering off?”

“I was not _freaking out,_ you mortal imbecile, and I’m hungry. At three thousand and seventy-one of your mortal years, I believe I’m capable of finding my own food,” he snaps back.

Okay, suddenly touchy. Fantastic. This bodes really well for a thirty-hour trip…

“Aw, can’t I tag along?”

“I don’t want your help, Stark! I’m not a child to be babied!”

Right… backing off now, then.

“Fine, Rudolph, fucking hell. Chill. I’ll go find my own grub. You’ve got your cell on you if I need to get ahold of you though, right? I’ll keep an eye on the departure board in case there’s a delay or anything and letcha know.”

Loki waves his phone briefly, exasperation written on every feature. “Yes, I have my phone. Now leave me alone.”

And with that, the god is gone.


	37. Takeoff

Admittedly, this might not have been the best idea. Whereas the city was loud and crowded, it also had paths that were relatively easy to follow once one knew how—the halls of the airport are open, and there’s no way besides the wall to know their direction. Unfortunately, people like to stand against said walls, so trailing them isn’t quite as effective as he would like.

Loki does his best to use the echos as a vague guide and locks on to the voices of a couple people around him to judge his relative proximity. It’s not perfect by any means, but better than nothing.

Thankfully it’s not hard to find a meal, because the scent of coffee and fast food hangs in the air and provides a fairly decent target point. Not caring too much what he eats so long as he eats something, he heads for the nearest option and almost runs into a woman who stops suddenly in the middle of the walkway. Stupid mortals. He apologizes politely, though, and finds his way to the counter.

“Good evening,” Loki greets with a pleasant smile.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

His smile turns a bit sheepish as he gestures to the cane. “Would you mind reading off the menu? I’m afraid I can’t quite see it.”

The woman obliges and he ends up ordering a couple sandwiches, a cup of soup, a salad, some french fries, and a milkshake. Enough for two humans, maybe, but their lunch had been rather short and he’s still healing. Honestly, he could eat two or three times this without much trouble. Mortals act weirdly when one man sits down with enough for a family, though, so he’s learned to stagger his meals while in public. Even as more a snack than a meal, it’s still food, and he’s content with that for the time being.

Balancing that in one hand is a bit of a trick, but thankfully the seating isn’t far away and the man at the first table he finds points him to an open one not far off. Loki sinks down into the metal chair gratefully when he finds it, appreciating the end of his long and arduous quest.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t _that_ long, but it wasn’t fun. What he wouldn’t give for a little magic right now…

The food’s a bit stale and not quite as warm as it should be, but at least it’s filling. It tastes a bit unfortunate as well, though that seems to be standard for Midgardian fare.

“But I don’ wanna, mommy,” comes the voice of a young boy behind him, “I wanna _draw.”_

There’s a yelp. “Ow! Mommy,” a girl whines, “Ben pulled my hair…”

“Ben, we don’t pull people’s hair. Come over on this side and stop harassing your sister.”

“I want my pretzel, mommy!”

“Just a moment, Alice, there aren’t any tables. We’ll have to go back to the gate and sit there.”

“But I’m _hungry.”_

“Alice…” the mother says with a sigh, trying to calm a now-crying baby.

Loki turns. “If you don’t mind sharing a table, you’re welcome to sit here. I hardly need four chairs.”

“I can’t impose–”

“Really,” he assures her with a smile, “I don’t mind. It’ll save you from having to herd them all the way there with your hands full.”

“You’re a lifesaver, thank you so much,” she thanks him with the obvious gratefulness of an overworked mother.

“Of course.” Loki pulls out the chair beside him for the little girl, who’s trying and failing rather miserably to do so herself. “My name is Lachlan.”

“I’m Maria. These troublemakers are Alice, and Ben, and the little one is Amanda.”

She sounds young—under thirty, most likely, though still probably a little older in relative terms than him. Her voice is kind. He decides he likes her.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” There’s a huff from his right, and he looks over. “And you as well, Alice. Where are you flying?”

“Los Angeles. My parents’, now that these two are out of school for the summer. What about you?”

“I’m going to Russia with a friend, but we’re flying through Los Angeles as well, I believe he said.”

“God, that’s gotta be a long flight.”

“Yes, so I’m told. I’m not used to spending so long traveling; it’s odd for me.”

The girl taps on his arm insistently.

“Yes?”

“Can I have a french fry?”

“Alice!” Maria scolds, “that’s not polite.”

“…please?” she amends.

Loki can’t help but laugh, and nods. “Since you asked nicely, then of course.”

Suddenly he has a lap full of what he’s assuming is five-year-old, give or take a year since it’s hard to guess for sure. To be honest, he doesn’t really mind at all. There’s a pang of sorrow that makes itself known, but she’s not _them,_ he reminds himself. She’s different, and there’s no use comparing them.

He turns the box toward her so she can reach a bit more easily, and settles into a comfortable conversation.

As it turns out, the woman twenty-nine and her husband works out of Seattle, so they haven’t seen each other in about a month. She’s been raising her children single-handedly for that time. It’s an impressive feat, he knows, especially with the ages that hers are.

At one point Ben starts asking about the cane (or stick, as he calls it), and Alice demands his sunglasses so she can pretend to be a secret agent. He refrains from telling her just what he thinks of government agents, instead letting her take them and run around the table pretending to hide behind him. She doesn’t seem terribly bothered by the scars when she pulls them off of his nose, but his hearing is good enough to notice Maria’s breath catch just slightly.

“What happened? I mean, if that’s not rude to ask or anything, sorry–” she quickly adds, but he shakes his head.

“No, it’s fine.” For a moment he runs the tree of possibilities through his mind, deciding the best course of action to take, and chooses one that’s mostly truth. “I angered my father, he took his revenge.”

“Oh my god,” she says, sounding shocked. He supposes the United States’ justice system is a bit different from Asgard’s. “I’m so sorry.”

Loki shugs. “It was years ago, and has been forgotten. There is no use in me dwelling on it now.”

_Sharp stone digging into his spine, the cold abominations they call bonds, pain and fear and agony… **grief.**  Grief of the greatest, most complete form. Screams and wails of terror that still echo in his ears at night when all falls quiet. Eternal darkness that blocks his senses and reminds him all too much of the place between Her branches._

No, it is neither forgotten nor forgiven. It never will be.

It _can’t_ be (and he has a few hundred scarred tallies to ensure that fact)

Yes, he deserved what was done to him. The sewing of his lips, the lashings, the cave… he’s come to realize that.

His sons didn’t.

Odin will pay for that.

The memories and anger come in a flash, but he banishes them just as quickly and keeps his expression in check.

“Besides, now Alice can be a spy. She’s so clever that she’s disappeared!” he says with feigned surprise, looking around for her (not that it really helps, but it’s just to appease her, after all). Loki knows exactly where she is, of course—crouching behind his chair and giggling quietly. It’s rather endearing.

After a few minutes of pretending to search for her she climbs back into her seat, and he can hear the grin in her voice.

“Pew! Pew!” she exclaims, and her tone becomes serious. “Now you’re dead.”

Clutching at his heart, he pretends to die dramatically and causes another bout of giggles.

“If I say you’re adorable, will that get me killed?” asks an all-too-familiar voice behind him.

Loki cracks one eye open, looking up toward the man from where he's dropped his head back. “Yes. I would highly recommend against such comments, idiot fool.”

“Lame. What are you up to?”

He sits up a bit more elegantly than his feigned death and gestures to his present company. “These are Maria, Alice, Ben, and Amanda. They’re on our flight.”

“Awesome. Hey, guys. Name’s Jake.”

“Nice to meet you,” Maria says politely while Loki tries not to laugh at the mortal’s chosen name. It doesn’t really suit Stark at all, but in some ways that’s to their benefit. He’s definitely the more recognizable of the two of them.

“Lancelot, we should probably head toward the gate. We board first.”

“Has it really been that long?”

“Like an hour and a half, yeah.”

It certainly hasn’t felt like such a lengthy period of time, although that’s most likely due to the children. They ease a little of the pain, although cause some too. It’s complicated, really.

“Of course,” he replies, finding his cane and collecting his trash. “Perhaps I shall see the four of you later?”

“I hope so. Thanks again for the table, you’re incredible.”

Loki smiles. “It was no trouble. Thank you for the company.”

Stak is polite enough (for once) to throw out the bag of trash for him before letting him take his arm and leading him back toward the gate.

“Picking up chicks, are we?”

He rolls his eyes while he tucks his cane under his arm. “She is married, fool. And I am in no way attracted to her—she needed a place to sit, and I offered one to her. It’s really fairly simple.”

“That’s no fun, I need shit to tease you over; you’re hilarious when you’re irritated.”

“Is that so?”

“Well, when you’re not trying to kill or maim me. That part’s not so cool. But still, you’re way too easy to fuck with sometimes and I love it.”

Loki shoves him good-naturedly and gives a sigh of exasperation. The air cools as they reach the gate and the seats are a bit overworn, but whether or not he’ll admit it, he’s glad the mortal has returned. Finding B10 would have been a nightmare alone, and as much as it irritates him he feels safer in the man’s company. Largely because that way at least he has _someone’s_ eyes watching where they’re going, although it’s true that after everything they’ve been through together he’s come to have an instinctual understanding that Stark is a worthy watchman, as he once trusted Thor, Sif, or the Warriors Three to be on extended hunting trips and the battlefield.

Foolish sentimentality is what it is, really. Norns be damned…

He changes his mind about liking the man when he starts being poked repeatedly in the shoulder.

“Do I need to cut off that hand of yours?”

“Rude.”

With an unamused look, Loki turns. “Is there something in particular you require, or are you just trying to see how far you can push me before I do something we both regret?”

“You’ll regret it? I feel like that’s a success, actually.”

“I have no desire to end up in custody again,” he elaborates, “the other casualties I don’t care much about.”

“I’m hurt, Dasher.”

“Good. You’re like a fly, with your constant pestering. Please remind me to apologize to Miss Potts, because she deserves to be paid a good deal more than whatever she’s making. More than you, certainly.”

“I am not _that_ bad!”

No, he’s far, far worse. Calling him a fly is really being too kind, the insufferable idiot. Granted, the insufferable idiot to whom he owes his life and relative sanity, so he probably shouldn’t complain _too_ much.

For the next fifteen minutes or so, their time is spent alternating between bickering like children and himself getting distracted by other people’s conversations. Never had he thought that his usual hyper-alertness would be so detrimental, but since he’s using the soundscape to keep his bearings, he’s paying even more attention than normal. It’s easy to become caught up in another story in such a busy place as this.

An insistent tugging on his pant leg brings him back from a ridiculous political debate happening a few rows over, and he looks over.

“Look, look!” a familiar, young voice says excitedly, “I made an airplane!”

He smiles, running his fingers over the slightly lop-sided paper wings. “Oh, wow! Look at that! I bet that was hard to make, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replies, in the sort of half-seriousness that young children think is convincing but is really just endearing. “Mommy had to help me. Mommy can make all _sorts_ of planes!”

“She must be very talented, then. What about your brother? Can he make planes?”

That earns a giggle. “Ben’s too little. Ben squishes paper and mommy says they’re rocks.”

Alright, it’s enough to make him laugh a little. “He’s trying.”

“Ben isn’t as good as me.”

“Hey, be nice to your brother! You’re both good.”

“But he’s _mean,”_ she whines.

“He just needs someone to teach him how to be nice, that’s all. He’s very lucky to have a big sister like you.”

A woman’s voice comes over the old speaker, crackling like old paper, calling for passengers with disabilities or small children who need extra time boarding to do so. Loki considers for a moment, but doesn’t get up. Stark is an experienced enough guide that he doesn’t feel any anxiety when following him, and it’s hardly difficult to sit down. Besides, as much as he’s willing to take advantage of the situation when it benefits him, there’s no point in calling it out when there’s no real plus. It’s not like they’ll leave any sooner if they’re first on.

They’re first-class, anyway, so once the couple young mothers and disabled elderly go they’re in the second group to be called.

Walking down the boarding tunnel is _weird._ The air pressure shifts and the temperature rises to a more summer feel as soon as they step through the door, and it’s disconcerting.

“Watch out, there’s a gap between the end of the ramp and the plane.”

Well obviously. Besides, this is what the cane is for. It’s not like it’s hard to step over. As predicted, the mortal makes it easy to find his seat, and it turns out to be a good deal more comfortable than the ones at the gate. Loki relaxes with a sigh into the worn (fake) leather. What is it with humans and their need to recreate everything in plastic? And their qualms with wearing real furs is idiotic—there’s no use in wasting useful parts of one’s game. Plus, if properly prepared and cared for, fur is far warmer and softer than the faux alternative. That’s a skill most hunters learn early on.

He suddenly misses his fur and wool cloak that he’d use in the winters while travelling.

It feels like an hour has passed before they start taxiing to the runway, but taking off is exhilarating. It’s been far too long since he’s flown, and he’s missed it.

“Planes are fucking awesome, huh?”

Loki scowls. “There are children nearby, Stark, please watch your words.”

“You are so weird around kids, not gonna lie. It’s like a magic switch.”

“Yes, well,” _blond hair, eyes as blue as the Sea of Space, laughing in pure joy as he teaches them to catch the little fish in their hands,_ “I have parental instincts. It’s something you can’t understand until you have children, really. And yes, flight is enjoyable, but you speak as though Asgard is perpetually in Midgard’s dark ages. We have flying ships, you know.”

“Wait, really?” the man asks with a yawn.

He hums in affirmation, adjusting the gasper so it will stop blasting cold air at his shoulder and hissing obnoxiously. “They are powered by dark energy rather than engines, but most of them are more advanced than this.”

“Hey! Stop dissing Earth shit!”

“Swearing, Stark. To be fair, Midgard has its impressive sides as well. You manipulate electricity instead, and in some forms your electronic technology is your own form of magic—I find it intriguing, actually.”

“Tech is _not_ magic.”

“It depends on your viewpoint, I suppose, but in many ways I would argue it is, especially since your kind still don’t entirely understand it. You can create new elements in your workshop with a miniature particle accelerator—it’s simply a different method to channel Yggdrasil’s power, if less intuitive.”

“I’m definitely asking more about this later, but I think I’m gonna take a catnap if you’re cool with it. I haven’t slept in like thirty-six hours at least. All-nighters aren’t exactly new, but I’m not usually running from SHIELD.”

Loki assures him that he in no way minds, choosing instead to pull up an article about Russia on his phone now that they’re allowed to be used. It would benefit him to have at least some idea as to the cultural differences.

Ten or fifteen minutes later he can’t help a quiet laugh at the man having ended up sleeping against his shoulder. Surprisingly, he doesn’t really mind. Loki isn’t really used to having friends who trust him, and it’s often confusing, but also an odd kind of nice (if ridiculously foolish on the mortal’s part). Stark’s position looks rather uncomfortable after a time, so he shifts to sling an arm over his shoulder and let him settle in a more pleasant manner in the knowledge that the man tends to have fewer nightmares when someone is nearby. It’s rather similar to Thor and him when they would travel together, although different reasoning, and he’s not sure if that’s a fond or bitter memory.

Loki leans his head back and closes his useless eyes. There are a few equations he’s been considering for one of their projects that he runs through absentmindedly, but for the most part he sinks into a watchman manner whilst the hum of the jet engines and roar of air outside filter through his peripheral. His newer, more complicated Rubik’s cube is in his bag, so he pulls it out with a bit of odd maneuvering to avoid waking the mortal, and keeps his hands occupied while he stays alert for danger. There’s one man on the plane with a gun, he knows, although from the signs it’s a sky marshal so he’s not overly concerned. Still—better to be on guard than caught by surprise.

 


	38. Nightmares

Out of a largely dreamless sleep, a soft voice calling his name slowly eases him back to awareness. It takes a few minutes to resolve the quiet hum of engines outside the window and muted chatter of passengers nearby, because he’s ridiculously comfortable and waking up is for losers. The cabin climate has tended toward the slightly higher end of the temperature scale, and Tony is appreciative of the cool body against his that’s serving as a quite wonderful pillow. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he’s met with a silver gaze through the gap in Loki’s sunglasses.

“If you find it necessary to fall asleep on someone in the future,” the god notes drily, “I think you’ll find it polite to do so in such a fashion that is comfortable for both parties.”

After over a day and a half without sleep, less than two hours of light rest has really only added to the weights that seem so determined to keep his eyelids firmly shut. “Sorry, not sorry,” he manages to mutter, quickly reaching the conclusion that he's not fighting this hard for something as pointless as being awake.

Loki’s sigh isn’t audible, but the rise and fall of his chest under Tony’s temple serves as a decent enough messenger. “We are going to be landing in just a few minutes; you may find some merit in becoming at least slightly conscious before that time.”

It's only with a great deal of grudging effort that Tony manages to pull away from the friendly thrum of the arc reactor and slow, steady beat of the god's heart—a rhythm he’s never going to take for granted after what went down in Arizona with SHIELD. The very thought of the fucking government shitheads kindles the flame of rage that’s been burning for almost two months now, and it takes a forced reminder that they’ll get what’s coming to them in time to keep Tony from doing something stupid right then and there.

Killing is _bad,_ Tony, remember?

Yeah. Bad.

Right…

Using the suit so much has, for the most part, desensitized him to descents (save for those when he’s completely out of control, in which case he just flips the fuck out), but it’s easy enough to tell they’re landing. Loki makes a face when the landing gear touches down and the plane jolts slightly, with a muttered comment about harsh landings and stupid mortal aircraft designs which Tony ignores. He’s too tired to deal with pissy gods.

The layover becomes a pain in the ass, because Terminal 4 isn’t connected to Bradley International and they have to go back through security. Once again they’re pulled aside for a more private screening, and Tony may or may not end up in a heated argument with the TSA agent (who is a bit more skeptical than the one at SLC). Loki quickly intervenes with a surprisingly patient diplomacy and manipulation, and plays the guy like a fiddle (sometimes it’s kind of scary how smart Loki is. Tony’s not used to being around other geniuses, but he’s got mixed feelings about it). After that they’re through in a matter of minutes.

Between the lines and the people, they don’t end up with all that much time before they’re boarding their connecting flight—although  neither he nor Loki is particularly upset about the fact, because their seats on the plane to Seoul are significantly more comfortable than either those at the airport or in American Airlines’ first class.

Tony tries to convince Loki to sleep, considering the fact that he’s still recovering and shouldn’t have been running around already, but the god refuses to do so. Instead Loki insists that he himself sleep, which, as much as he wants to argue, he’s tired as fuck.

By the time the plane leaves the runway, he's out cold.

*

“Stark…” A voice like gentle velvet caresses his thoughts in the midst of the chaos, a noise so different from the cacophony of shouts and screams that it pulls him back from the edge of the yawning precipice.

“Stark.” It’s not enough, though, not really—not when the white-hot sun is searing his back and guns follow his every movement, or when it all fades to something worse than darkness because there’s _nothing._ Nothing and everything, at the same time, and it’s so _wrong–!_

Everything’s burning, breaking, shattering and throwing distortions like a prism as he falls through the plate glass windows into oblivion. Freezing, burning, blurring, tendrils of nothingness braiding themselves around his neck and tightening in a chokehold that squeezes ever tighter and won’t let go–

He bolts upright with a gasp, clawing at his throat in an effort to chase away the ghosts of the strangling mass. As his vision clears, Tony is met with the sight of a raven-haired man kneeling beside his seat, cool hands enveloping his own in a silent show of support.

“Anthony, it’s alright, you’re safe. This isn’t Afghanistan—we’re on a plane from Seoul to Khabarovsk, it’s May of 2014… You know who I am?”

It takes a few moments for the haze to lift enough from his mind to give the words meaning, but when he manages he nods. “L-Loki.”

Said god grants him just the barest hint of a smile. “Very good. Try to slow your breathing, and focus on me, alright?”

Without a better option, Tony complies. His heart pounds in his ribcage like it’s trying to make a jailbreak, and his mind is caught between the nightmare and the waking world. _Fuck,_ he wants to be back at the tower right now, because if he has to flip a shit like this, doing it over the Pacific surrounded by strangers isn’t exactly his preferred method.

A hand rests over his chest, fingers splayed across his sternum, and the slight pressure acts as a grounding sensation that he latches onto like a life ring.

Loki. Focus on Loki.

A breathy laugh appears unexpectedly, and Tony breaks down into slightly off-balanced giggles. The god leans back slightly, something wary flitting across his face.

“…Stark?” he asks in what could almost pass for concern.

He jabs a finger at Loki’s shoulder while he laughs, nearly doubling over in desperate laughter. “You,” he manages to choke out between breaths, “have a really funny name.”

“You have actually gone insane,” the god declares, eyes going so wide that it’s comical, which only sets off another bout of laughter.

To be completely honest, it’s really not that humorous—it just feels like it right now because he’s so fucking scared after the dream—so the guy’s got a decent reason to be concerned, but laughing seems like a lot better option than, say, crying. Tony doesn’t really do crying. Like ever, if he can help it.

Loki says his name again, and before his brain can really process the movement amongst the jumble of thoughts and impulses, he’s wrapping his arms around the god’s neck and burying his face in his shoulder. For a moment Loki stiffens and Tony worries he’s going to pull back, but he hasn’t even finished the thought when strong arms wrap around his waist in a surprisingly tender embrace.

“Shh…” the god soothes quietly, raising a hand to run fingers through Tony’s hair.

A fragment of his mind makes the connection between the way he’s helped Loki cope with high emotion in the past and how Loki is acting toward him right now, almost like reciting a lesson. Wherever the god learned it, it works—the contact forms a perfect ground, and Tony slowly manages to shove the worst of the panic back into the mental hard drive where he stores it.

“What were you dreaming about?”

“I–” He shakes his head, not entirely sure if he wants to talk about it.

Loki tips his head enough that he can look in his general direction. “Do you trust me?” he asks, a note of reservation in his voice as though as much as he wants the answer to be positive, he doesn’t really believe it will. He’s wrong.

“Yes,” Tony replies without hesitation.

The god lets out a shocked laugh at his response, and raises an eyebrow incredulously. “You are an utter fool, you idiot mortal.”

“Probably, yeah, but you say that like a compliment.”

“I suppose I do,” he admits. “If you are fool enough to trust me, Stark, then trust that speaking of it will help. Alright?”

Tony sighs, fiddling with the fabric of the god’s jacket. “It was… I dreamed that I was back in the cave again, that the Ten Rings had caught me. They were kind’a pissed that I lied to them and blew all their shit up, so they tortured me…. Raza shot Bakaar, then Pepper and Yinsen, then he tried to shoot you–” he cuts off, not really wanting to continue.

Loki chuckles quietly. “It is a bit more difficult to kill me than that, in case you haven’t been able to see by now. I could snap his neck with barely a second thought.”

A shudder wracks his body as the rest of the details flash before his eyes. “Yeah, well, the bastard didn’t make it.”

The god stills, just long enough for it to be noticeable before he recovers. “I was an antagonist in this imagining?”

Tony nods.

“And yet you do not balk from my presence.”

“When we started running into each other, I had to draw a line between the bag-of-cats psycho killer and the depressed, fiddle-playing geek. I still see both of ‘em when I look at you, which I’ve learned to deal with, but I can make the distinction.”

“I see.”

“For the record, you still scare the ever-living shit out of me on a daily basis.”

“Good. Fear is healthy—it keeps you alive.”

That isn’t entirely true, and Tony’s pretty sure that Loki realizes that. There are times when he looks up, but instead of seeing the guy he’s become friends with, he sees the supervillain who tried to kill him more than once; chances are, he’ll keeps seeing that version for a long, long time, especially after the events leading up to their time with SHIELD. The ice-cold edge of a blade drawing a thin string of rubies from one’s throat isn’t the sort of thing that just gets forgotten, nor is a familiar voice hissing terrifying threats in your ear, which is precisely why he has to trust the god—there’s enough shit between them that there’s no other way for this to work. They both have to be a little stupid and hope for the best.

To say that Loki had been an antagonist would be the understatement of the century. The things he’d done in the dream? He wouldn’t wish them on Raza. Or anyone. It had been slow, and calculated, and the sheer amount of blood, bones, gore, and screaming have done something bad to his psyche.

If that’s what _his_ imagination can come up with, he really doesn’t want to know what a three-thousand-year-old, warrior-reared god’s can.

“I hold no ill will toward your people or realm, Stark. You should know that.”

He laughs darkly. “No, this time it’s my turn. Fuck SHIELD and all they stand for—how’d you like to have a little villainous reprise and take out the World Security Council with me?”

“World Security Council?”

“Oh, right, didn’t tell you the details,” Tony remembers, glancing around to make sure no flight crew or passengers are within earshot who might call them out on talking about somewhat questionable subject matter. “They’re the ones who decided to nuke the city during the invasion.”

“That wouldn’t have done them any good. All that would have happened is they would have killed your team, and therefore the only ones with any real hope of slowing the chitauri. One of their pathetic little bombs on their own populace would never put a decent enough dent in their army to do you any good.”

“Yeah, hence my vendetta against them. I can’t easily go after them right now, unfortunately, but trust me—when I can, I am. I just need to work out how to replace them with a group that’s a little less fucked-up before I do, because I’m not quite stupid enough to wipe out the biggest global organization that’s paying attention to shit outside our atmosphere. The Avengers won’t bite the bait and help me out, which means I have to do things a bit of a roundabout way. You’re welcome to join in, of course, when I do finally get revenge. It’s gonna be so fucking sweet, man. So. Fucking. Sweet.”

“I suppose it does sound like good fun.”

“Oh, trust me—it will be.”

Unfortunately, as much as he wants to just nuke the assholes and call it a day, thinking about it doesn’t really help the lingering panic. Council means abyss, and abyss means… well, there aren’t words. He shivers again just thinking about it.

“Do you have a pen?” the god asks him.

“In my bag, I think, yeah.”

Loki looks at him like he’s crazy, at which point he remembers that the guy doesn’t know where said bag _is,_ so he breaks away from the comforting hug to find the pen and hand it to him. Without any real warning, the god shoves him over a bit and sits cross-legged at the foot end of his seat where it’s been folded flat.

“What do you know of runes?”

“Um… nothing, really. That Vikings carved them into stones and shit.”

With a roll of his eyes, Loki finds his arm and pushes his sleeve up. “The Elk’s-sedge,” he recites, “has its home most oft in the fen.” The pen scratches three cool marks across his wrist in what would resemble a Y whose stem continued to the top. “It waxes in water, wounds grimly. The blood burns of every man who makes any grasp at it.” Loki sits back and caps the pen. “Algiz. Traditionally seen as Heimdall’s rune.”

“Algiz,” he repeats.

“The rune of protection—and your introduction to the most basic forms of magic.”

“Oh god, not magic…”

“Yes, I am a god, and what’s wrong with magic?” the god asks, sounding rather affronted.

“Nothing! Except, y’know, breaking physics on a regular basis, giving a big fuck-you to reason, and generally being impossible.”

Loki sighs. “You obviously do not understand it at all, then—magic could not be more logical. Complex, yes, and fluid, but it fits nearly perfectly with your view of Yggdrasil if you actually look. It is just learning to manipulate the underlying forces of the mother ash, or the universe, as you call Her, but if you do not believe then you cannot tap into them.”

“Sounds like a cheesy episode of My Little Pony.”

“Oh, for the love of Mímir’s severed skull… it is not that She requires your faith, it is that if you do not truly believe it to be possible then your mind is not open in such a fashion that you’ll be able to manage access. Will you try to at least _attempt_ to accept that there are things you do not yet know?”

Tony scowls, but nods before remembering the god can’t see him. “Fine.”

“Thank you. Now, as I believe I told you when I was etching my knives, by themselves runes hold no power—it is your own will that gives it to them. You can consider them a vague form of capacitor, if you like, to store energy. The same force that gives you life is the power that connects all things, and thus you have an innate access to it—you can manipulate it with your will, because will _is_ a version of that force.”

The god offers the pen, so he takes it.

“Your turn.”

“What?”

“Your turn,” Loki repeats slowly as though he’s speaking to a slow child, and holds his hand out, palm-down. “Draw the rune.”

All things considered, it’s a way to get his mind off shit, and he’s got time to kill. Why not draw crazy Asgardian shit, right? He takes the god’s hand and starts to sketch the thing, but is immediately swatted away.

“Not like that, you fool!”

“What?” Tony demands. “I was writing exactly what you were!”

With a sigh, Loki rubs the ink off his hand and holds it out again. “Yes, you were, but lines do not a rune make. Letter, yes. Symbol of power, no.”

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do, wish upon a star?”

“No, you imbecile, you’re supposed to will it. All the fear right now, from your dream? _Use_ it. Take everything that haunts you, and then imagine all your suits, and weapons, and allies. Channel your pain, your anger, and your determination into a singular force that overpowers your worry, and keep focused on that while you write—force the emotion into your action, and the two will start to bleed together.”

“That doesn’t make–”

Loki cuts him off in exasperation. “Stop overthinking everything and just _do,_ mortal fool.”

“Okay, okay, god, fine.” Stupid asshole.

With some serious mixed feelings about the whole apparently-magic shit, Tony pulls everything he felt when Loki had first pulled the knife on himself back to the surface and focuses on that (it’s a little too soon, he thinks, to think about the nightmare too hard).

But seriously, that had scared the shit out of him. The fucking look on Loki’s face as he’d laid dying… just, _never again._ So fuck no, he doesn’t really think there’s that much to the whole magic-runes crap, but he’s definitely been through enough with the god to have a bit to pull from. The more he thinks on it, the more worrying that is, actually—he’s always been pretty damn selfish and not put too much trust in anyone, but the god’s made him do some pretty crazy stuff without even trying.

Again: stupid asshole.

“Not bad,” Loki tells him when he’s drawn the character. “You need practice to refine the raw power and channel it properly, but it’s a functioning ward as-is if a bit crude.”

“Right… so, if that’s Heimdall’s, what’s yours?”

“Which rune, you mean?”

Tony nods, spinning the ballpoint pen between his fingers absentmindedly.

“Ansuz, reversed, has been associated with me on more than one occasion.” Loki’s expression splits into a grin. “Trickery and subterfuge—my favorite things.”

“Oh, god, just what I need in my life—more chaos.”

“It’s what I need in mine, so feel free to share any that you happen to obtain.”

It’s not something that he’s thought about that much in all the mayhem, but now that he looks, Loki looks significantly better than he did in the weeks before his meltdown—no longer are his eyes shadowed with exhaustion, or is his voice half-absent, as though his mind is a few galaxies down the street. Now he sits peacefully with that stupid smirk that seems to be his trademark painted onto his face like he was born with it (and all things considered, it’s completely possible he was). Sure, the aftereffects of his suicide attempt and the following surgeries still linger, but he still looks a thousand times healthier. The difference is staggering, now that he looks for it.

“Well, tell you what: you and I are going to figure out a way for you to get your daily dose of mayhem that doesn’t involve blowing up everything in sight.” Easier said than done, of course, especially considering the fact that he doesn’t understand the mechanics of the god’s dependence, but fuck if he’s going to sit back and watch this all happen again. “You are such a piece of fucking work, you asshole.”

“Mmm,” Loki affirms with a slight nod, “I do try. It’s a talent of mine, I think you’ll grow to find.”

“Great. How’s the reactor, by the way?”

That earns him a scowl. “I assume something is shorting out, from the feel of it—not enough so as to impair its function, but enough to give a bit of a shock every little while. Nothing I can’t handle, but it’s uncomfortable.”

Tony runs through the designs in his head looking for faults that could be causing that sort of problem. The reactor the god wears is a prototype, really, because he hadn’t finished development on the slim version but wasn’t going to give him the full-sized older version when there was an alternative. There’s still work to be done to perfect it.

“It might be in the connection between the vibranium and the main base. I’d take a look, but screwing around with that right now will probably end with someone thinking we’re planning the next 9/11 or some shit. Plus I don’t have any tools… when we land in Khabarovsk and get out of the airport I’ll see what I can do.”

To his eternal surprise, Loki doesn’t offer a snide remark on the offer to help, and opts instead for gazing toward him for a moment before nodding and giving a slight, grateful smile. “My thanks.”

“That’s what friends are for. Well, that and breaking your sorry ass out of supermax-security secret government facilities, sneaking you into foreign countries, and betraying their planet in the process.”

The smirk makes its return, possibly even more so than before. “I’m a fantastic role model, what can I say?”

“You’re a complete asshole is what you are.”

“I am truly disappointed in the regression to childish, simplistic insults you seem to have suffered whilst I was bedridden—we were making such progress. Must you honestly be back to your disturbing fascination with my anatomy? I’m far too good-looking for you, I thought we’d already established that fact.”

“You’re the one whose mind’s stuck in the gutter and always takes shit like that. And, um, excuse me, have you _seen_ this face? I’m fucking gorgeous.”

Loki chuckles. “I feel incredibly sorry for Gorgeous, then, but in answer to your question? No, I can’t say I have, unless you’ve turned svartálfr and grown to a truly monstrous size… which I suppose is possible considering the slop your species considers to be edible food. If that is the case, would you mind moving out of my field of vision, please? You’re blocking the view.”

 _Fuck,_ he’s missed this—the stupid, joking arguments and the way the god’s smile lights his face when the bastard’s feeling clever. It’s a weird bit of normalcy (or what could pass as normalcy in lives as bizarre as theirs) after what have literally been months now of genuine fear and frustration. Loki’s laugh helps ease the painful bite of the nightmares more than he’d care to admit.

Friendship, caring about people… it’s dangerous. That’s been made abundantly clear to him time and again as he’s abandoned or had people used against him, but at the same time there’s shit like this where he honestly doesn’t know how he’d make it if he were still as cut-off from people as he had been a few years back. Thank whatever powers be for skinny, storm-eyed god-shaped miracles.

Okay, the fact that he just considered the asshole—and his mind was _not_ taking it that way until Loki said that, for the record—a miracle is just the tiniest bit concerning, especially taking into consideration all the definitely questionably-moral (a.k.a. not really at all) shit that’s going down, but good things _don’t happen_ to Tony Stark. There’s always a catch, and he guesses he’s found it.

Hey—could be worse, right?

Probably.

Maybe.

Okay, this whole situation is pretty bad, but still. It’s not like dealing with Loki was ever going to be _easy._

“You’re awfully quiet. Did I offend you?” the god asks with more sarcasm dripping from his voice than Tony knew possible, before switching to a distinctly more mocking, faux-effeminate demeanor. “Oh, dear, are you _dead?”_

“Eind blesa halfviti,” he retorts.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t quite earn him the reaction he was going for, because Loki looks at him blankly for a minute, then breaks down into laughter hard enough that Tony thinks he might actually be tearing up behind his sunglasses. It’s hard enough to hurt, at least, and after a few seconds the god winces and holds a hand against the arc reactor while he forces himself to calm.

“Next time you attempt to speak my language, Stark,” he manages between stifled snickers, “you may wish to check your pronunciation.”

“Wait, what?”

“‘Particle blaze half-know,’ _really?_ If you were trying to say ‘duck-faced moron,’ which I’m assuming was your intent, then it’s ‘önd blasa hálfviti.’ Do try to pay attention to your vowels next time, because that is just painful.”

“Hey! It seemed to be fine when you were freaking the fuck out and yelling at me.” Granted, at that point he’d just come off of a week or so of cramming info into his head, and had memorized a couple phrases that seemed like they’d probably be useful, so… yeah, his pronunciation probably isn’t great. Especially when you add in the fact that the Asgardian dialects aren’t the same as the Icelandic-ish mishmash he’s been using.

“Yes, well, I was rather delirious. Your butchering of my beautiful native tongue was not the first thing on my mind, as I was rather more concerned with why I was alive with an _arc reactor in my chest.”_

“Fair point.”

“I know. I do appreciate the effort, though, I suppose. It’s not an easy language to learn, especially not for a mortal.”

He scoffs in what doesn’t really count as affrontedness anymore, given how often Loki says things like that. “Quit insulting the awesomeness that is the human race! We’re fucking fantastic.”

“And again, I extend my condolences to Fantastic for that unfortunate circumstance.”

“You’re mean.”

“I try.”

Tony absentmindedly traces the unfamiliar character on his arm as he has a thought. “Wait a sec, though, back up like five minutes. You said don’t have magic, but then you can do runes and shit?”

“Mortals,” Loki scoffs again. “There are varying forms of magic—I lost my innate connection to Yggdrasil’s power, which was my strongest source, but just because I myself do not act as part of the circuit does not mean that I cannot still manipulate the wires. The types of spellcrafting that involve the external use of power are still accessible to me. Things like seiðr, witchcraft, and technically sorcery as well… those I can use. I just prefer not to, for the most part. Runes are slightly different—something of a middle ground between externally- and internally-drawn power—and so while I prefer them to the other ways, mine are not as strong as they once could have been.”

Huh. “That actually makes a surprising amount of sense, if you ignore the wavy hands and mystic power shit.”

“One day I will convince you that magic is not so unscientific as you believe it to be, idiot fool.”

“Is it going to involve diagrams like the quantum physics one? ‘Cause, for the record, all that did was show me that you’re batshit crazy and give me a killer headache.”

“Oh, come now. Would you honestly like me if I wasn’t a bit insane?”

“Fair point.”

Loki chuckles, fingers drumming out a complex rhythm on his knee. “We still have a few more hours to go before we land. You should use what time there is to sleep, considering how little you have over the past few days.”

“Aw, Scrooge, is that _care_ in your voice?”

“Care that you don’t get us lost in the airport, yes,” Loki replies (and Tony would bet half his fortune that he’s rolling his eyes right now).

“Asshole.” He readjusts his blanket, though, and shoves at Loki’s leg to get him to move off his seat so he can lay down.

It’s not until he closes his eyes that Tony realizes how tired he still is and finds himself appreciating the hum of the engines in the background—silence is impossible to sleep in, and has been for a long time now. Loki says something quietly before returning to his own seat, but Tony doesn’t try to translate. The pillow is pretty soft, after all.

“Ef ég gerði ekki sama hefði ég látið þig sofandi, þér kjánalegt fífl.”

*

Not long before the plane lands, he’s met with a rather rude awakening. No, seriously, Loki’s crosslegged in his seat across the aisle tearing pages out of the in-flight magazine, balling them up, and throwing them at him. Not all of them have made their target, but still.

“Wha–? What time ‘s it?”

“About four, we’re landing soon,” he replies, throwing another page and almost hitting him in the face now that he has a better judge of where Tony is.

Tony just groans and drops his head back onto the pillow.

With a chuckle, Loki balls up the next piece of paper. “I can do this all day.”

“Yeah, and keep missing, Nemeth. Way to hit the wall. People have to pick those up, y’know.”

“Oh, stop being a hypocrite—if it were you, would you have any issue with it?”

God dammit. He hates when Loki’s right.

“As I thought. Now, wake up.”

“I’m awake, I’m awa–” he’s interrupted by a yawn, but sits up despite how badly he just wants to sleep for the next seven thousand years.

*

On the plus side, they don’t have to go through security again for this layover. On the somewhat downside, it’s almost seven hours until their next flight leaves.

This trip is way too fucking long.

It’s too early for the Asiana lounge to be open (which is stupid), and all the fancy sleeping chairs are taken (which is doubly stupid), so Tony ends up finding some semi-comfortable seats in the same area. He finally manages to convince Loki that some shut-eye is a good idea, considering it’s been almost twenty hours since they got to the SLC airport and he hasn’t slept since the car, although it takes an offhanded comment about staying up and watching the bags before he finally pulls his glasses off and lays down. Apparently the asshole’s determined to get payback for Tony falling asleep on him earlier, because now the god’s using his lap as a pillow, but he finds he doesn’t really care that much. It’s hardly the first time Loki’s done it.

The airport is relatively quiet, given the time, although the first of the business travellers are starting to trickle in. It’s definitely not the ugliest building he’s been in, and if anything the clean, modern look of it suits his tastes well. The marble, stone, and glass could almost belong in the lobby of his tower or his Malibu place. Fuck, he’s not really one to get homesick, but he’s going to miss his houses. There’s a reason Bruce is in Amursk, and it’s not because it’s full of diamond-dusted nightclubs and neon lights. The guy really needs to get a better taste in cities.

Tony glances around, checking for anyone looking a little too interested in them for their own good, but it’s a wonder how much of a difference a hat and some plainer clothes can make when it comes to people recognizing one of the most prominent people in the world. That’s one of the benefits of the media’s depiction, he supposes—there’s a very set-in-stone view of him, and people don’t expect him to deviate from it. After all, why would Tony Stark be even remotely trying to hide his identity, or taking a commercial jet? The world is full of idiots who never look past the obvious pattern.

And then there’s Loki, who’s not only terrifyingly perceptive, but also refuses to follow any form of logic whatsoever.

He ends up with his tablet on the seat beside him, working on a bit of computer code to be implemented once he gets settled in at Bruce’s place. Tony has plans, after all, and they’re going to be big. Like, big doesn’t even begin to cover them. The outcome is harder to judge, but it will be interesting, that’s for sure. It would be nice to pull up holograms and just talk Jarvis through the more boring bits, but he’s stuck working one-handed and not pulling out all the fancy add-ons specific to his personal series of tech thanks to the fact that he’s trying to stay low-profile. Lame.

By eight thirty he’s finished and lost interest in his tablet, and thankfully Loki wakes (albeit groggily) by eight forty-five.

“What in Freya’s gardens are you doing, Stark?” he asks, words still a bit slurred with sleep.

“Turning you into a pretty princess.”

Loki turns his head to gaze up toward him, one eyebrow raised, and runs a hand over his hair. “I didn’t think that was in your skillset. Men here tend to crop their hair close to their head.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve braided enough audio cable in my life to know how shit works, and your version of ‘short’ hair is still pretty long. I didn’t have anything else to do; the internet got boring. You look absolutely resplendent with bedhead, by the way.”

With a scoff Loki rolls his eyes and stretches, but doesn’t object to Tony finishing the braid. Granted, Asgard doesn’t seem to have the same braid-equals-girly connotation that the US does judging from how often Thor’s shown up with them, but that’s probably a product of them also seeming to have no concept of cutting hair.

“I smell food. Is it late enough for breakfast? I’m rather hungry.”

“Yeah, we’re pretty close to the snack bar thing. It’s mid-morning, so if you want to we can go hunt down some grub and head up to the Asiana lounge—they’ve got comfy chairs and showers, which I’d kill for right now.”

“That does sound nice…”

“It involves you moving your heavy-ass head, you know.”

“This is precisely what summoning spells are for.”

“Well, you’re depowered and I don’t have mystic voodoo powers, so you’re shit outta luck. Gotta stand up.”

Loki groans, and generally acts like a grumpy teenager for the next minute or so while he fully wakes and climbs to his feet. “Satisfied?”

“I mean, I’ve been travelling for like two days straight and still have five-ish hours to go, am on the run from the government, and am heading to a really shitty Russian town, but sure, you’re not laying on top of me anymore—I’m just peachy.”

They end up just ordering breakfast at the snack bar since it’s so close, and wander around while they eat out of take-out bags to stretch their legs. When they finish, Tony makes a beeline to the Asiana showers (after showing Loki to one, of course, he’s not _that_ mean). The warm water is fucking heaven, and he may or may not spend a bit longer than strictly necessary under the warm cascade just trying to relax. He’s got half a mind just to hit up the massages, but there’s like a zero percent chance of Loki comfortably laying on his chest for any period of time even if the asshole _would_ let his guard down for more than three seconds. The lounge will have to do.

As it so happens, the lounge has massage chairs. He’s never been so happy in his life.

They’re fucking _incredible._ Or maybe it’s just the discomfort of travel speaking, but still.

*’*’*

His chest hurts. Badly.

Were it not for the fact that the mortal has been through the same thing himself, Loki would tear his throat out for doing such a thing to him, because it’s completely unnatural and his entire body screams out against the foreign energy within his veins. Thankfully he still has a couple methadone pills in his bag, but he’s almost out (the doctors wouldn’t give him too many at a time, since apparently Stark told them about his previous overdose), but they take a little while to take effect and the constant ache is enough to drive him mad.

The need to add to his tally is strong—the tides of the urge have risen again, it would seem. He doesn’t have a knife, though, so he settles for turning the water up higher than is comfortable and then standing in the near-burning spray as long as his body can stand it. It’s still not enough, though, not after his dreams…

They weren’t as bad as they could have been, and for that he’s grateful. He didn’t see Váli or Narfi, or any of his children, but enough memories of his family filtered through to strip down his emotions and leave him feeling like a husk of his past self. He can cover it with a snide remark or two, but that doesn’t change the numbness that’s set in.

Valkyries, just remind him for five minutes what feeling is like.

It’s not the only reason he’s picked up a blade over the past year and some—the main reason will always be his children—but it’s certainly one of them. The more time passes, the more it happens. It’s not even sorrow, just… nothingness. Like the void claimed his heart as well.

With his hair dripping on the counter, Loki digs around in his bag in hopes that maybe… aha. So he _did_ bring a pencil sharpener.

Getting the thrice-cursed thing apart is a bit of a challenge, but nothing he’s incapable of. One of the benefits of not fighting regularly for the time being is not having to keep his nails as short as possible, so with a bit of effort he works the screw loose until the blade falls into his waiting hand.

The slow drag of metal through his flesh is satisfying, almost. Another day; another tally. Another silent prayer to those who have died for his sins.

He doesn’t stop there, _can’t_ stop there, because one tiny mark doesn’t counter the emptiness. One tiny mark doesn’t warm the frost in his mind. One tiny fucking mark doesn’t bring them back.

So the dull blade digs into his hip, because isn’t he already destined to be covered in shameful scars? He won’t focus his body’s  limited healing powers on things he wants to hurt, anyway, so the reminders will be here for a long time to come. Keeping track of how many times the metal bites his skin doesn’t cross his mind at the time, so long as he feels something, and it’s not like he can see the marks to count later so he doesn’t know how bad it is. Loki just wipes the blood away when the need lessens slightly and  turns to his clothing so that he can finish getting ready for the day.

*’*’*

“Dude, take long enough?”

“The water was warm, and I was comfortable. It’s not like there are circus performers out here to entertain me otherwise; you may have the natural talent but lack training.”

“Hey!”

Loki laughs and finds the seat beside his by feel, and spends the next half hour driving him completely up the wall for the asshole’s own entertainment.

The flight to Khabarovsk is fairly uneventful, considering that Loki gives in and tries to get some sleep (although Tony’s a bit iffy on how long he’s actually out and not just faking it) while he doodles designs for some suit upgrades he can’t make abroad on the napkins from his in-flight meal. Getting through border control? That gets a little more interesting. They take the red line through, since they have to declare the nice array of weapons in their checked bag, and Tony gets into a rather interesting discussion with one of the men which Loki ends up diffusing in fluent Russian.

Because, yeah, apparently the god speaks Russian. Don’t ask Tony, he has no idea when that happened.

For the next twenty minutes they shuffle around passports, visas, and too much paperwork for anyone’s good—seriously, Tony hates having to act like a normal human being. Things are a lot easier when you’re a world-famous superhero with a fuckton of money.

Loki just seems peeved by the entire affair and keeps muttering things about ‘useless human customs’ under his breath when there aren’t any border control agents around.

“What, you guys just jump between worlds without making sure people are who they say they are?”

As it turns out, apparently they do.

Tony would really like to know how that works out, and if they can please implement the same strategy on Earth, please?

When they’re finally through, he hefts his backpack onto one shoulder, grabs the rolling suitcase, and leads Loki out into the cool spring air to search for the currently-not-so-big-and-green version of his friend. It takes a few minutes, given the general confusing layout that all airports seem to have, but after a bit of unintentional exploring (and a lot of grumbling from Loki), he finally spots the familiar mess of wavy brown hair.

“Hey, Brucie!” Tony calls across the sidewalk with a grin. Damn, he’s missed the guy—it’s been since the whole thing with Killian last year that he saw him, and even then it was a short visit.

Bruce turns, a matching smile on his own face. “Tony! Long time no see. You said you were bringing a fr-”

He can see the exact moment when recognition sets in, and it’s a little scary. Not, like, green-level scary, thank god for stellar self-control, but still pretty damn scary.

Loki offers a short, polite nod.

“Doctor Banner.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know that Loki's room wasn't actually supermax security; Tony's a drama queen.


	39. Guests

Loki’s hold on his arm tightens minutely as Bruce and the god stare each other down. Well, not quite _stare_ on Loki’s part, exactly, but probably, like, very intense listening or something. Confusion, fear, and anger wash over Bruce’s face in equal measure as the silence stretches out. As quickly as he’d frozen, Loki recovers himself and releases his grip to sweep a bow with one closed hand to his chest and a leg brushed back.

“I’m afraid we haven’t formally met,” he says, the former hesitation in his posture now absent from his silken voice. “I am Loki, of–” His face twists into a scowl. “I am Loki.”

“Bruce Banner,” is the slow reply. The man’s eyes widen a hair at the depth of Loki’s bow, and hold a glint of bewilderment when at last he looks back to Tony for answers.

The god’s demeanor is one of overwhelming control, and when Tony rests a hand on his arm he can feel just how tense his muscles are. “Mind if I chat with the jolly green giant’s buddy for a few seconds?”

“Of course.” he nods.

Tony taps Loki’s forearm twice. “Car to my right; we’ll be right back. Feel free to grab the shit you couldn’t carry on the plane out of the bag, if you want. We’re free and clear now.”

Bruce turns on him, arms crossed in a defensive gesture, when they get a decent distance away. “Tony…”

He gives a sheepish laugh. “I take it you want explanations?”

“Those would probably help; SHIELD didn’t tell me much, but they said not to trust you if you called.”

“And do you trust them?”

“No.”

“Do you trust _me?”_

“Right now?”

“Yeah,” he says with a nod.

“No.”

Tony shrugs. “Well, I guess I’m starting even at least. What did Fury say?”

“Romanoff, actually. Just said you’d been ‘compromised to an unknown degree.’ I think she’s still scared of me.”

“Um, dude. You turn mean and green and try to smash people—I think that’s probably fair. Granted, I like the other guy, but still. “

“I already know what you’re going to say, but I have to ask: mind games?”

He looks at Bruce seriously. “Yes, he has me under mind-control. It’s absolutely awful. I have to do his laundry and everything.”

“Wait, wh–”

_“No_ I’m being under mind controlled, dumbo. I mean, I know my eyes are drop-dead gorgeous and all, but I’m not sure anyone’s going to be calling them sky-blue oceans like this is some cheesy tween rom-com. I’m fine. What do I have to do to prove it? I can totally, like, streak naked across the parking lot if you want.”

“That’s okay, I think I’ll take the risk.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I totally got in shape.”

“I’m sure.”

“Party pooper. Look, it’s way too long a story to tell right now, but the really short version is that Loki and I ran into each other by mistake last year and I’ve kind of ended up trying to give him a second chance.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow, his gaze searching. “See, that doesn’t sound as much like you.”

“What, being a decent person?”

“No, I meant…” he sighs, trying to put it into words, but he doesn’t need to—Tony gets his point. That summary makes it sound like it was a lot simpler than it was.

“Loki might not be the next superhero, but he’s not a bad guy either. I mean, sure, he’s got a fuse so short that a microscope couldn’t see it, more pent-up loathing than the Grinch on Christmas Eve, and might as well have a neon sign pointing at him saying ‘hey, look at me and my fucking enormous superiority complex,’ but he’s also brilliant, depowered, and blind.”

“Wait, what?”

“Blind. Like, can’t see. Asgard apparently isn’t the paradise Thor makes it out to be, from what I’ve heard of their shitty justice system, because that ain’t even the half of it, buddy. I don’t know how much he’d want me to tell you, but if he gets sent back there then some really fucked-up crap’s going to happen to a lot of people. Those aren’t his words, by the way, he isn’t trying to trick me into anything. Just please don’t tell SHIELD, okay? Give me time to prove that I’m not crazy… well, not in regards to this, I’m totally crazy. Seriously—and Fury can’t under _any circumstance_ know this—Pepper and Happy both know. Pepper and him actually ended up as weird sort-of-friends, and they’re scary when they gang up on you. Please pretty please with sugar on top don’t make me do something ridiculously stupid?”

Bruce laughs quietly. “Tony, I really don’t think I need to make you, you’re completely capable of doing it yourself from the looks of things.”

“He’s been on Earth for over a year, and hasn’t hurt anyone who hasn’t threatened to hurt him first. Well, until the whole ending-up-with-SHIELD incident, but still.”

“What happened?”

Tony scratches the back of his neck and offers a sheepish smile. “Um, he kind of blew up a few blocks of downtown with Hydra’s help? It’s kind of a long story involving lots of shit I don’t completely get, but something to do with him being the god of chaos and the peace literally driving him whacko. He was trying, though,” he quickly adds. “Like, I’m not kidding, he was putting serious effort into not flipping out. He’d spend hours working himself into the ground to get rid of the extra energy, but I honestly don’t know when the last time he slept was before that happened. Please just give me a chance, okay? You’re kind of the only person I could go to on this one.”

“This is going to end badly…”

“So does this mean you’ll let us come to your super-secret sleepover?”

“Since when is the fact that I’m in Russia a secret?”

He can’t help himself, really. Maybe it’s a side effect of having spent so much time with Loki, but Bruce finds himself stuck in a Tony-sized bear hug until he starts squirming and complains that he can’t breathe.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you, I promise you won’t regret it!”

“I wouldn’t say that _quite_ yet, Tony. Just for a week or two, and we’ll see what happens—I don’t trust Loki as far as I can throw him, and you have a _lot_ of explaining to do later.”

“I owe you one, buddy. Seriously, there’s a spot for you at my labs when you finally cave.” Grinning, Tony skips (in a very manly way, of course) back over to the car. “Hey, Luigi—we’ve got a new housemate!”

“Aren’t _you_ the new ones?” Bruce asks, following after and unlocking the car for them.

Loki ducks his head respectfully. “You have my deep gratitude for your kindness and generosity.” He still stands stiffly, and the formality and respect are odd to see. Not that Loki isn’t completely capable of both, of course—Tony’s reminded by little things all the time of the fact that he was raised a prince—but the immediate shift into full-fledged politeness are surprising. Guess that’s what happens when you hulk-smash a guy into the concrete, though. “May I inquire as to how far we are from our destination?”

“Uh, four and a half hours, about. We should get back around nine tonight.”

He nods and bites his lip.

“Something wrong, Donder?”

“No…” is the absentminded reply. “I’m fine.”

The drive is long and largely uncomfortable, although Tony does his best to diffuse the awkward silences with chatter about what’s been happening in New York City and the projects he’s been working on. Loki ends up in the front seat, since the car’s on the smaller end and the god’s ridiculously tall (or at least that’s what Tony says, but all three of them know it’s because Bruce probably wouldn’t want Loki to be behind him out of sight). By the time they get to Amursk it’s getting dark and Bruce’s apartment building is just a towering shadow.

“Not in the best shape, so, um,  try to be careful. Not the best part of town, either.”

“Home sweet scary home,” Tony jokes, only to get punched lightly in the arm.

“I mean it. You should be fine, but just keep an eye out.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. We will.”

Bruce ends up giving some excuse about having to meet someone somewhere which isn’t exactly the most convincing thing Tony’s ever heard, but if the guy needs some space to think over the whole Loki thing, he isn’t going to push. Honestly, he’s kind of surprised it went over as smoothly as it did, but he attributes that to Bruce’s ridiculous amount of (admittedly necessary) self-control. There’s a conversation they’re bound to be having soon, and he isn’t looking forward to it. Tony takes the key and grabs their things in one hand, letting Loki take his free arm, and goes inside to check out their new accommodations.

Well, new for them—the building’s pretty damn old. The off-white paint is chipping away around the trim in the hall and the carpet curls up at the corners where the staples have gotten pulled out. It’s musty, but it’s a roof, and it’ll work.

*’*’*

The ride to their lodgings felt neverending, and it’s a miracle he’s been able to hold on as long as he has. To be completely honest, it’s likely the threat of the green beast that kept him in-check in the car. Once Stark’s friend has left and he’s been shown to a room, it’s all he can do to keep from slamming the door.

With a snick the lock clicks shut, and Loki half-climbs half-falls onto the bed with a muted whimper of, well, not relief exactly. Not really at all, but thanks that at least he’s alone. He should probably be grateful it’s been this long, but he misses the sweet relief the morphine offered back in the tunnels when this happened.

Get out, get out, get _out…_

There isn’t a fireplace in the bedroom, but he manages to find the heater and turn it up as high as the dial will allow. It’s not enough, could never be enough, but at least it’s _something_ other than the frost that’s been gnawing at his mind for the past half-day.

So, so cold. Worse than anything he’s felt before. He’s never really felt true cold before, which he can now attribute to his true heritage, but this is far past what he’s heard the others describe of chill. This is the true power of ice. This is the thing that freezes birds to death mid-flight and sends them plummeting from the air.

Loki kicks his boots off and crawls under the quilts still clothed, the blizzard in his mind overriding any worry for cleanliness. Now that he isn’t fighting with all he has to repress it, the sudden shift in strength is maddening and he feels terrifyingly weak. There’s nothing he can do against it, not really. This is true helplessness.

He bites down on the blankets to keep from crying out as the icy claws sink in further.

No, nonono, _please,_ why him? Why must this happen?

With a harsh shiver, Loki digs his nails into the rough sheets. He’s stronger than this. He’s a survivor. He doesn’t need the burning blade, he can hold out in this room and Stark need never know how far gone he truly is. No one need ever know.

A sharp jolt in his chest of the arc reactor sparking pulls his mind back to its presence, and he fumbles at his shirt buttons. Get the thrice-cursed thing _out_ of him! It’s just pumping the slush through his veins faster and mixing it with that burning, wrong energy.

Get _out-!_

Slipping back into his jötunn form is almost instinctual in order to keep warm, but it’s not enough. With the blankets clutched to his chest he sit up and pulls one of his newly-reclaimed knives from his sleeve to drag it across his leg— _any_ pain is better than this. It’s something to focus on that he can control. He needs more.

Not that it helps, really. But at least it’s by _his_ hand instead of this unknown glacier.

With the blood he draws Fehu, Sowilo, Uruz, and Kenaz on the sheets around him, and wills them with all his might for warmth and health. They do nothing, and he lets out a pained whimper before growling in anger and tossing the knife to the floor.

Pulling the blankets over his head does little to form any sort of cocoon of warmth, but he tries nonetheless. A jolt of icewater sears through his veins, and he digs his heels into the mattress in agony.

“–ki!”

He jerks back when a something rests on his forehead—a hand, re realizes belatedly. Warm. He tries to apologize, to ask for that blessed warmth back, but all he manages is a pained whimper.

Terror-stricken at his helplessness, he reaches a shaky hand out in the direction of the voice.

“Fuck, Loki, what’s wrong?” the man asks with a panicked urgency and laces their fingers together.

“C-Cold, so cold…”

At his insistent tug, the bed dips beside him. The man radiates heat and it’s all he can do to keep from just crawling into his lap right now to seek warmth, but apparently some small vestige of pride still remains. When another hand finds his hair, though, the heat must burn it away, because he’s curled up against the man’s side without any further thought.

Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop…

“Make what stop? Loki, talk to me.”

Had he said that out loud?

“Yeah, you did.”

Norns… but now that he tries to find words, his mouth won’t function. Everything hurts too much, like his mind is being crushed between two bricks of ice.

“Woah, hey, hands off the arc reactor! Is that the problem? The reactor? Just nod or shake your head.”

He manages to do the latter. “Coldcoldcoldcoldcold–”

“Shh…” the mortal soothes, “I’m here, I’ve got you. You’re going to be alright.”

For some unknown reason, between that and the hand on his back some of the panic subsides. The pain doesn’t lessen by any means—it’s increasing exponentially, in fact—but he isn’t quite as scare–  
  
An unexpected stab of pain pulls a strangled shriek from his lips, and the man’s arms tighten around him protectively.

“Loki, I need you to tell me how I can help.”

He shakes his head. “Nothing you can do. Have to wait it out. Don’t go, don’t go don’t go–”

“I’m not going anywhere, I’m staying right here. As long as you need me to. I swear.”

Loki wants to thank him, to show how grateful he is because he desperately he needs the man’s presence, but another searing pain tears through him and his nonexistent vision goes from darkness to a jumbled mess of static.

Nononono… he doesn’t want this, no, please-!

Whimpering nonsense in Asgardian he clutches at the man’s shirt and begs whatever curse this is to free him, _please,_ just let him go. Either leave him or kill him, no more of this! Please!

It doesn’t work, of course.

Ice so cold it burns claims his consciousness, pulling him under into the white and trapping him, paralyzed, in the frozen claws of this unknown agony.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What, you didn't think I was going to let a major plot point slip, did you? You should really expect the evil by now.


	40. Hammurabi

If there’s one thing that Tony’s learned over the years, it’s that seeing gods brought low scares the everliving fuck out of him. He was raised to believe that, if there _are_ such things, they’re invulnerable. Gods, and demons, and angels… that was the mythology of his childhood that he quickly outgrew (because what sort of gods don’t answer the prayers of crying children, or let good people die, or watch unmoved as whole countries starve?). He and religion never had quite worked out their problems.

Now, though, he’s met gods. Or, at least beings who call themselves gods and were worshipped as such, who can hear prayer and apparently possess people and shit, so if nothing else he’s just had to adjust his definition of ‘god’. And gods can be hurt, and bleed, and die. Gods can cry and be afraid, and be blinded, and be broken.

And that terrifies him, because it seems so wrong.

He sits quietly, watching the unconscious god slumped against his chest, and wonders what he’s supposed to do now—this wasn’t the plan. At least, not like this. Not yet.

There should have been at least another week or two before they needed to leave. He’d meant to have a place for him and Loki to have to themselves, and more time to plan and pack. This was sloppy and haphazard, leaving too many possible trails to follow if people really start looking, and he’s desperately counting on Jarvis to quietly reroute SHIELD’s search any time they start getting too close to the truth. Speaking of…

Tony manages to wrestle his phone out of his pocket and flicks it over to hologram mode so he doesn’t have to pull awkward one-handed maneuvers since his other arm is currently wrapped around Loki.

“Jarv, you here?” he asks, voice hushed. He doesn’t think he’s going to be waking Loki up from the looks of it, but better safe than sorry.

“Of course, sir,” returns the familiar voice as a network of cyan appears in the air above his phone on the bed.

“Initiate Sirius protocol on a ninety-second delay.”

“Security code?”

“Thurisaz X eleven thirty-eight.”

“Voice pattern confirmed as Anthony Edward Stark; security code confirmed; initializing Sirius protocol…” A few seconds pass and the floating threads of the hologram coalesce into a wireform of the helicarrier. “Sirius protocol initialized.”

There’s no going back after this; if he makes the choice, there are going to be consequences. Big ones, and not things he can undo. He looks down at the god in his arms, remembering the past two months and everything that’s been said and done, and his resolve hardens. His life is one long string of unforgivable actions, after all. At least this time he has a reason.

“Do it,” he commands, voice hard.

Tony rests his head on Loki’s shoulder, watching the seconds tick down from ninety out of one eye. He’s made his choice, and there’s no going back.

"For Loki."

He didn’t tell Pepper about this part. He didn’t tell anyone. She might have suspected something, but never this; she always did see the best in him. That’s the thing, really—there are very few people who get that _he isn’t a hero._ That he doesn’t have the same code as them. The reason he can understand Loki is because they’re the same.

Double-digits become single, dropping steadily until they hit zero and the projection of the helicarrier shudders. The altimeter’s readout drops quickly. With all four engines off, it’s not long before the hologram flickers out and Jarvis announces that the protocol is complete. He can’t hold back a cruel smile for a few moments, because it’s just so _funny_ when people underestimate him.

Don’t ever fuck with Tony Stark.

*

It’s not until around midnight that the broken god in his arms so much as stirs, and even then it’s only a pained whine.

“Loki?”

He gets a quiet groan in return.

The god turns sunken, glazed eyes toward him, something almost eerily lifeless lurking in their depths, and Tony shifts so that their position is both more comfortable for Loki and doesn’t involve the headboard digging into his back anymore.

“Are you okay?”

Loki shrugs half-heartedly and readjusts himself against Tony’s chest.

“Can you talk?”

He nods.

“Don’t want to?”

A no on that one, and Loki stares off into space. Tony pulls the blankets up around their legs since Loki half kicked them off earlier and rubs his back gently. “Okay, that’s okay. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

The god nods again and sighs, one hand fiddling with the hem of Tony’s shirt. It’s almost an hour before he says anything, in which the two of them sit quietly except for Tony’s occasional whispered reassurances.

When he finally does sit back, it’s with eyes averted and shoulders hunched. “Apologies. That was out of line.”

“What, not wanting to be alone when you’re feeling like shit? That’s not out of line, Loki, that’s normal.” Tony takes the god’s hand. “Mind telling me what the hell happened, though?”

“It was nothing.”

“Yeah, and I’m Captain fucking America. You knew to wait it out—this happened before?”

Loki nods.

“When?”

“Month ago.”

“You were comatose a month ago.”

“Mhmm.”

Well shit. “So it’s somehow tied to the coma…” he thinks aloud, but Loki shakes his head.

“It’s not related, Stark. Leave it.”

“I’m not letting this happen again, Dasher.”

The god pulls away and snarls, teeth bared and something wild in his eyes. “You can’t _stop_ it, fool!” The anger falls away as his voice drops to a whisper. “Nothing can.”

“More than once before, then?”

“Please, Stark, just let it be. It is not that bad, I’ve been through far worse.”

“That’s not the most reassuring thing you’ve ever told me, you know. Look. You’ve told me that you trust me, so will you please try to drop the masks?”

Loki opens his mouth as if to snap something rude back but falters as the words are halfway to his lips, and instead closes his eyes. A tear manages to slip the god’s control and Tony brushes it away gently.

“In your own time; just breathe.”

“I don’t need your help-!” he cries out angrily, but Tony cuts him off.

“No, you’re right. You’ve been through a fuckton of shit that I can’t even begin to imagine, let alone think I could survive in one piece, and somehow you’re still fighting. You don’t rely on anyone else, but y’know what? It’s okay to _want_ support, even if you don’t necessarily _need_ it. Alright? I feel like we’ve been through this before—I kind of volunteered to be your one-man support group. No questions asked, no judgement passed, I’m here if you need _or_ want something, be it help or otherwise.”

Loki’s crying now—not some dramatic affair, no sobs or sniffling, but crystalline tears trace paths down his cheeks while he sits silently with his eyes shut. Apparently the asshole got lucky in the genetic department because he’s one of the few people Tony’s ever met who can manage to still look beautiful like this (Tony isn’t one of them, much to his irritation).

With a long sigh, Loki shifts to sit beside him and pulls out one of his knives to spin absently between his fingers.

“Twenty-three times.”

“What?”

“About every month since the invasion.”

Memories make a lot more sense as the pieces slot together—all the mornings where Loki would show up later than normal looking completely out-of-it and often sporting a few cuts or scrapes that never seemed to have a logical reason, then proceed to wear a ridiculous number of layers for the rest of the day. Hell, the first time they really talked was… the end of the month. That time at the café when Loki looked like total shit and had been cold all day, despite the fact that it was still warm for fall.

“That’s what had happened the night before I first saw your apartment, isn’t it?”

“Aye. And why I turned to the drugs, as well—they didn’t stop the fits, but dulled them a little. I’ve tried everything, but that’s the closest anything comes to helping.”

With enough carefully-chosen questions (although it’s obvious which one of them is the wordsmith, and it isn’t Tony), he manages to get an explanation of what happens. The cold, the physical pain, the feeling of something going after Loki’s mind… none of it matches to anything he’s heard of before. Granted, he isn’t an expert in extra-terrestrial mental health issues, but it’s definitely nothing he’s seen on Earth.

Thing is, even though Loki is crying, that’s by no means to say that he’s in any way weak. The guy’s terrifying, murderous, has been to hell and back and has the t-shirt. Loki has a serious temper and won’t pull his punches, and is the sort of guy who won’t break until there isn’t another way. So when he cries? He’s hurting. Badly. And fuck everything if Tony isn’t going to help.

“So we have a month before it happens again, yeah? A month to figure this out. That should be plenty of time for a couple geniuses like us.”

“It’s not that simple, Stark, and you know it. You wish for the truth?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

He sighs. “You need not waste effort on a futile quest; I have little hope left of finding a cure. If it isn’t too much to request, though… would you sit with me again, next time?”

“You might be low on hope, I’m not. I’m going to figure this out, but yeah. Of course I will.”

Loki’s lips quirk just the tiniest bit and he rests his head on Tony’s shoulder with a hum. “My thanks.”

“Funny, isn’t it? How if you ask, people are willing to help?”

“That has not often been my experience; it is not the way of Asgard.”

Tony scoffs. “Yeah, well, Asgard sounds sucky, Earth’s the place to be. Actually, Earth’s kind of a shithole too, now that I think about it… want to take a daytrip to the sun? No stupid people there.”

“I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t be able to get that close to it, unfortunately.”

“What, and you can?”

“Had I my magic, I could get fairly close without putting myself at too much risk.”

“Yeah, yeah, showoff. Hey, speaking of magic, you said your arc reactor was acting up—need me to work mine?”

“Would that involve you moving?”

“Um, yeah, I need my tools.”

Loki yawns and shakes his head slightly. “Do it later. I’m tired and you’re comfortable.”

“I swear to god, you alternate from porcupine to teddy bear like you’re running the fucking Pacer test on the thirteenth level,” he complains, although he can’t quite keep back an affectionate smile.

Oh, he is so completely fucked, isn’t he?

The god pulls away, biting his lip, but Tony wraps an arm around his shoulders to keep him from sulking off. “I was  joking, Blitzen, I don’t mind. C’mere.”

It’s not long before Loki decides the best solution is to sit between his legs and lean back against his chest, which while surprisingly more intimate than Tony thought he’d go for, is also pretty damn comfy in comparison to the awkward leaning they’ve been doing. Loki’s head fits perfectly under his chin like this, he notes absently, but there’s the lingering shadow of knowledge that this is almost exactly like Tony had held him after he’d attempted suicide.

At the thought of the god’s blood on his hands he tightens his grip. Loki’s fingers come to rest lightly over his own and he speaks quietly, eyes closed as he seeks out sleep.

“I know where your thoughts are wont to lead—I am going nowhere.”

“Good.”

A thumb rubs the back of his hand. “Sleep. I will wake you should you dream.”

*

Sunlight is just starting to paint bands of light on the sheets when Loki stirs, nudging Tony back toward the waking world. He sits quietly, relishing the peace of the morning so far from the city or the constant commotion of the SHIELD base, and watches the tired god in his arms while he murmurs something sleepily in Asgardian.

“Hmm?”

“Morning… I think.”

“Yeah, it’s morning. Just after sunrise.”

“Mm, good. I’m famished.”

“Well, Bruce got back late last night and I don’t think he’s up yet, but I’ll raid the kitchen and see what I can do.”

Their morning is relatively uneventful, so once Tony’s gotten his things unpacked (read: thrown haphazardly around his own room) he returns with a small kit of tools to check out what’s up with Loki’s arc reactor.

*’*’*

He hates the cursed thing, he truly does.

His head is killing him enough as it is, but at least Stark is thoughtful enough to give him a blanket to keep warm with whilst the mortal works. Having his shirt off the day after one of the encounters with the ice isn’t something he much appreciates.

Stark’s fingers skim across his skin with the long-practiced precision of a mechanic. Having the reactor itself lifted out of his chest is terrifying, as he knows the science behind what happens if it’s not replaced in a timely manner, but having the weight eased is a blessing. Normally the device pulls at his ribs in a constant pressure too large to ignore and too small to remedy, and the skin around it is still healing. It aches, constantly. Lying on his chest is out of the question unless completely necessary, and he suspects it always will be—whatever stage of the healing process, the reactor is sitting somewhere that no foreign object is ever meant to rest. His body will always reject it, and pressure on the object will always cause pain. How pathetic, really, to be dependant on such a thing.

Deft hands do their work without hesitation as Stark mutters things about the device’s components and diagnoses the issue. Five or ten minutes pass this way while Loki offers advice where he can before there is a quiet, insistent rap on the old wooden door.

“Tony?”

Loki hesitates, not wanting to be seen in such a vulnerable state, but Stark does no such thing and ultimately makes the decision for him.

“Bruce, I need a hand…” he mumbles. He’s started on a project, now, and there are very few things that could pull him out of his line of focus.

Banner sits across from him. “What do you need? And he has an _arc reactor?”_

“Hold those two wires, there? No, not those– yeah. Those two, sweet, gimme just a sec…” One second turns to ten, turns to ten minutes, but the man’s friend follows along easily from the sound of it. There are no uncomfortable shocks, which he counts as a good sign.

When the reactor is finally replaced he gives a quiet sigh of relief and rubs at the device thoughtlessly, sending a jolt of pain outward from his chest before he thinks better of it. Damn…

“Hey, Prancer?” Tony asks when the other man finally leaves.

“Hmm?”

“Bruce is kind of waiting for some explanations here, for obvious reasons. I put it off so I could ask, but… how much do you want me to tell him?”

He rubs at the still-tender scar on his ribs where the knife had gone in with a frown. “I’d prefer nothing, but I acknowledge that it is unrealistic. I suppose I must trust your judgement to be respectful. Just…” he sighs at the memory, feeling a thousand years older than his actual age, “I do not wish him to know of my children. That stays between us, yes?”

“Yeah, of course. I’ll try to keep the personal details to a minimum, but I’m going to have to use a few as leverage.”

“I am aware. As I said; I trust your judgment.”

“Thanks, Comet. You should be set, so let me know if you need anything but in theory you’re good to go. If you get another ambient misfire, let me know.” The bed shifts and a hand runs through his hair.

“I’ll be back in a few and we can go see about getting clothes, okay?”

“That would be much appreciated.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“I want to commit the murder I was imprisoned for.” –Sirius Black_  
>  Also, the star Sirius is known as Lokabrenna or “Loki’s Torch,” a reference to his role at Ragnarök.  
> Just in case you were wondering about the protocol name (you probably weren't).


	41. Culture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This potentially goes for future chapters too, but I want to say up-front that some of Loki’s opinions here I clearly disagree with. However, he’s from a very different cultural background than Americans like Tony are, and thus I’m pulling from what we know canonically about Asgard and extensive research of ancient Scandinavia.

“He’s crazy, Tony. You saw what he did to New York, what he did to _us.”_

With a sigh, Tony swirls his coffee and wishes it were alcohol. “I’m crazy. You’re crazy. I mean, for fuck’s sake, have you _met_ SHIELD?”

“There’s a difference.”

“Yeah, we won. That’s pretty much the difference.”

“What is it about him that makes you think all this is… worth it?” Bruce asks, tracing the grain of the wood. The question isn’t accusatory, thank god, just thoughtful. “Why do you think he isn’t going to turn around and stab you in the back?”

“Okay, look, I asked him if I could tell you, so… Do you want to know the truth about the god of lies?”

“Uh… sure.”

“Truth is, Loki’s not crazy. Not like people seem to think he is, anyway. He’s not a psychopath, for starters. If anything, he’s the opposite—he’s completely capable of love and compassion, but I don’t think he knows what to do with them. Asgard kind of fucked him over big-time, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. On the other hand, I could totally see depression or something along those lines. That’s not really my point, though, I’ve gotten off-track… I told you the gist of Afghanistan, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I got out of the cave with a suit. Blasted the bastards to kingdom come, but here and now? This is Loki’s cave. He didn’t get out.” Tony sighs and watches a bird settle on a powerline outside. “I think he was already cracking back on Ass-guard, but whatever happened between the time he fell from the Bifrost and showed up on Earth broke him. And I don’t mean a little bit, I mean completely fucking shattered. Y’know how you said you put a bullet in your mouth?”

He nods, at-terms with his past actions.

“Loki put a knife in his heart.”

Well, okay, that gets a reaction. Bruce’s once-wandering gaze snaps up to lock with his own, the man’s lips parted just slightly. “What?”

“There’s security footage if you don’t believe me—it happened while he was in custody at one of SHIELD’s bases—but Thor confirmed that he was suicidal before he ever came to Earth. That was his third try as far as I know, and it– it happened right in front of me. I should have seen the signs, should have noticed and done something before…” Tony shudders at the crimson-stained memory. “He fucking bled out in my arms. Honestly, I don’t know how the surgeons managed to stitch him back together, but he was comatose for over a month. The arc reactor was kind of  a last-ditch effort to stabilize him enough for Strange to bring him back; if that hadn’t worked, he’d probably be dead right now.”

“Damn…

“He’s never actually been given a fair shot in life. Hell, I’d even say he’s been half-forced into playing the villain, and from what I’ve been able to get out of him about the subject the whole invasion was at least partially under duress, but he’s just as capable of doing good as he is crazy if you give him the chance. I mean, for fuck’s sake, he jumped into a fight to save Natasha’s life of his own accord, even though he’s blind and had to go into hiding afterwards.”

“In my defense,” Loki cuts in, “I only did it because the fight was too close to my apartment and a casualty would have risked my having to relocate.”

*’*’*

He pauses in the doorway with his fingers brushing the worn frame to judge its position. A few stray beads of water that he didn’t catch with his towel drip from his wet hair.

“Everything feel good with the reactor?”

“Mm, yes, it would seem the issue was the coils after all. My thanks. To you as well, Dr. Banner.”

“No problem. Bruce, he’s blind, he can’t see you nod.”

“Oh, yeah, uh, right. Of course.”

Loki considers saying something abrasive, but thinks better of it. There was no need to aid him, and it’s a bad idea to provoke the man into becoming slightly less mortal.

“Are you really gonna skimp on the hipster hat?”

The idiot earns a scathing look. “Considering you chose it to mock me, I believe I’ll have to pass for the time being.”

“So… does that mean there’s hope for the future?”

“I suppose it could be used to smother you, so if you keep harassing me then we shall see.”

“Aw, Dasher, glad to know you care.”

He scoffs. Infuriating moral fool. It’s rather hard to be angry, though, because despite the night’s events he feels surprisingly good. Sure, he’ll likely have a bit of a headache for the rest of the day, but there’s a pleasant buzz in his veins that he hasn’t felt in a few centuries and it’s _fantastic._

*

A little while later, they end up at a store in a slightly nicer section of the city to replace the clothing they left behind.

“You’re awfully peppy today, all things considered," Tony notes. "Hell, you’re peppy for _usual,_ is there something I should be worried about?”

Loki smiles as he runs his fingers over the slightly coarse wool of a sweater he’s considering. “All is well, Stark, you need not fret.”

“You’re not on drugs, are you? I mean besides the methadone, because I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t get a high off that shit.”

“Of course not, you imbecile. This is far, far better.” He can’t help but laugh quietly as he revels in the near-forgotten glow. “Chaos, Stark. True, unadulterated chaos in my name; the strongest form of worship to me. I in no way caused it, mind you, and hold no blame, but it is _beautiful.”_ And it really is. Should he ever find the mortal responsible, they will be considerably rewarded for this. He’s not felt anything this strongly since a war was started over his favor millennia ago and at the time he was little more than a child.

“Right, I forget about all your weird god-powers—you act pretty damn human for the most part. Okay, well, some of the time. When you’re not scaring the everliving shit out of me.”

“I’ll do my best not to take the human comment as an insult.”

“See, now, I’m going to try to not be insulted by _that_ , asshole. Which do you think would look better, blue or brown?”

He considers for a moment. “What shade of blue?”

“Ah… somewhere between Oxford and UC Davis.”

“These words mean nothing to me.”

“They’re schools, nevermind… It’s dark blue, a little muted. That better?”

Loki bites his lip and drums his fingers on the handle of his cane. “What color are your eyes?”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes—what color are they?”

“You don’t know that?”

“Stark, I’ve been blind for nearing two years. I only saw you briefly during the invasion and was focused on other things at the time; I don’t have much memory of your appearance.”

“Oh. Wow, never thought about that. They’re brown.”

With a thoughtful hum, he considers the options. “Do they have a light grey?”

“Uh… yeah, they do.”

“Get that one.”

Metal clicks against metal as the man replaces the two hangers and takes a third. Rubber soles tap on tile, and he can feel his presence in front of him. “I’d ask if it looks okay, but, y’know… you’re probably not the most useful for that. Isn’t it weird, not knowing what anyone looks like?”

“A bit,” Loki admits with a sigh and tries to figure out how to word this. “It’s… different, I suppose. I know you by more than your voice, you still have a sort of image, if you will, in my mind. More like… the gel in your hair makes it coarser, your core temperature is a hair warmer than most, and your hands are rough from manual work but never shake. That sounds a bit odd, but it’s things like that.”

“Nah, it kind’a makes sense, even if I don’t completely get it,” Tony tells him while Loki tries to decide which scarf is softest. The third from the front, maybe? It feels like lamb’s wool beneath his fingers, and he rather likes it.

It’s something he doesn’t usually try to dwell on, but the comfort he’s developed in speaking with Stark about the little details of his life is odd. With Thor he’s always been so desperate to impress that he censored nearly everything, twisting the truth to suit his means, but Stark has seen his dark corners and not tried to pretend they don’t exist. Perhaps that’s why the man attracts the type he does—he accepts people’s faults and actively addresses them with a rare amount of respect. He’s not afraid of the ugly parts of people. That’s rare.

Norns, he should _not_ be so trusting. It is bound to end poorly, and the mortal’s life span is so short… it will be over in the blink of an eye, he reminds himself coldly. Attachment is for fools.

Yet all the same, this is such an impossible circumstance. He calls very few friends.

“What do you think?” he asks, pulling the scarf around his neck for consideration.

“I like it, very you. Looks good with your hair, too.”

Loki smiles. “Of course it does; I always look stunning.”

Someone taps on his arm, and he nearly jumps out of his skin having not heard her coming.

“При покупке шарфа перчатки идут в подарок,” the shopkeeper informs him. She has a light voice, and sounds young. Younger than him, in relative terms.

“Замечательно. Благодарю.”

“Wait, fancy people say what?”

He rolls his eyes and turns to the woman, still speaking in Russian. “Please forgive his poor manners, he’s American and has never been particularly talented at politeness.”

“I can speak English, if you’d prefer.”

“No, it’s much funnier this way.” Loki tries on the gloves and flexes his fingers to test the fit. They’re warm but fingerless, much like the ones he used for archery and hunting—some used strips of leather to protect their fingers but he’d always preferred to truly feel the tension in the bowstring and be able to more clearly judge his shot without worry of his fingers slipping. “Stark,” he says, switching back to English, “is there anything else you require?”

“Nah, think I’m set.”

*’*’*

The Amur river is muddy, enough so that Tony can’t see very deep. The path along it is dusty with weeds twining through cracks in the sidewalk,  and the air is cool enough to nip at his ears with sharp teeth. Coming out here was his idea, since he wants to get a feel for the area. Well, that and the memory of what Loki had said about having not been outside for any extended period of time in months. He’s caught the god smiling to himself a few times—not very noticeably, but Tony’s spent enough time with him to read the subtle shifts in his expression—which he considers to be a win. Loki keeps a loose hold on his arm, his cane folded and tucked under his free arm, and occasionally asks about what the area looks like. He doesn’t try to sugarcoat things, because Loki could probably tell and because, quite frankly, the place isn’t the greatest city he’s ever been to. Half the time it looks like a ghost town considering how quiet it can be and the dilapidated buildings long-abandoned. When it doesn’t, half the residents are scavenging for rusted appliances and living off near-useless pensions.

Loki sighs. “The city reeks of death. What happened here, to destroy it so?”

“God, that’s a long story. Like, decades long.”

“We have time.”

And so Tony explains the Soviet Union, and tells the stories of the Cold War and the fallout it caused in Siberia’s wealth. He speaks at length of dictators and nuclear weapons and the fall of Amursk’s once-flourishing economy. Loki listens quietly, nodding occasionally and canting his head in Tony’s direction.

“Your people—the war amongst yourselves, the poverty, the desperation… I know you think the idea a fearful one, but had I somehow been able to both win the battle and escape His wrath, places like this would be rebuilt and thrive again. As a ruler I have little tolerance for unnecessary suffering. Quarrels would be settled with words rather than weapons, and I’d teach you people to live with your realm instead of this constant battle against it.” He speaks thoughtfully and rubs small circles on Tony’s arm with his thumb.

Granted, Tony’s not stupid—he knows there’s a ninety-eight percent chance that it’s a calculated manipulation on Loki’s part; a soothing act of familiarity to be associated with the otherwise disturbing thought of a likely-totalitarian government being imposed over the entire planet.

This overlap, where friend-Loki and invasion-Loki meld together, is what scares him most. Sometimes it feels like Loki’s almost human now, but he can never entirely forget the fact that the god’s morals are hugely different from his own. This Loki can still kill, and show complete and utter cruelty should he deem it useful to his own ends, and there’s probably nothing that can change that.

Perfect benevolent dictatorship his ass.

“Sounds a little too good to be true.”

“Nearly three thousand years of sitting in on council meetings and learning the secrets to sitting the most powerful throne in the nine realms gives one a significant advantage over mortals. I was trained to rule over a realm, whether or not Odin ever intended for me to do so. Whether or not you believe it possible, I am entirely capable of showing mercy.”

“Okay, let’s face it—whatever I say, you’re totally going to out-wordsmith me.

That earns him a chuckle. “Most likely, yes.”

“Asshole.”

“Idiot mortal.”

*’*’*

This has always been a point of frustration for him. Why can’t the mortals see that his rule could be truly beneficial to them, would they only acquiesce to it? He isn’t some young fool toying with power, he truly does have the knowledge of how to effectively govern a realm, and a good king protects his people not only from other forces but from themselves. Asgard may be a realm of war, but Midgard is one of constant squabbling like the children they are. They need a guardian, of sorts, to teach them peace. A fair combination of punishment and reward and they’ll learn to behave like proper adults.

Instead, the daft creatures are Hel-bent on keeping their “freedom.” Do the people of “the land of the free and the home of the brave” honestly believe they are granted true liberty? They’re all thickheaded if they do. Half their laws don’t even make sense. Why on Muspelheim would a truly wise government place so many restrictions on weapons? That leaves the majority of the population prone to the evil of others and in the event of an attack. Valkyries, most of them don’t even know basic self-defence. It’s especially bad in a city such as New York, where those with cruel intentions will find weapons regardless, and corruption runs rampant among the law enforcement. Their system of punishment is completely backwards, with trivial things like assault earning great severity whilst breaking contracts requires little more than a fine. Honestly, if one is fool enough to get caught and weak enough to be harmed, it’s their own fault and they deserve whatever is given to them for their laziness. Breaking a promise, on the other hand… _that_ is serious. Oaths are far more than legally binding—they’re the entire basis of a united people. The ethics of them run deeper than lawful citizen versus criminal, because even the most dishonest of the evil will not break them. A promise is the strongest, most irrevocable bond that can be made.

Alas, he’s trapped on this idiotic realm of oath-breakers. The connection between humans is weak at best, even amongst close friends; from what he’s seen, it takes them a matter of months to essentially lose contact and not care, despite the ease of communication. He has no idea how any marriage lasts in a realm such as this.

Things have changed so much over the centuries since he last spent a significant time on Midgard, for once they mimicked Asgard to a degree. The realm is remarkably alien to him, despite the speed at which he’s adapted. After all, being able to _do_ things is not always hand-in-hand with _understanding_ them. And he doesn’t understand this realm at all.

Perhaps, in some ways, that was one benefit to being mostly confined to Stark’s tower—he was largely free to act as he wished there, out of the public eye. Not that he isn’t glad to have left in some regards (yes, Amursk might be a dying city in a rather literal sense, but he’s walked enough battlefields that the stench, which apparently the mortal is oblivious to,  is nothing new), but this brings with it an entirely new set of customs to learn and try to decipher the meaning of.

At least he has Stark, though. After his fall he’d nearly forgotten what it was to have something to ground him. He’ll never admit it aloud, but he needs someone to provide a baseline or he can become a bit too erratic for his own good. It comes with the territory of being the chaos god, he supposes. Somewhere along the way wires got crossed. Stark is better than Thor ever was at pulling him back to level when he begins to lose control, though… and he _cares._ It makes no sense to Loki, despite the months he’s tried to pick apart the words and find an answer. Everything he’s done for him? Were it anyone else he’d think it was a ploy to make him owe a debt. Yet Stark not only saved his life repeatedly, but from what Pepper told him one afternoon when the man had gone to get food, he’d stayed and slept at his bedside in what was most likely a deathwatch. Loki always assumed he’d die alone, on a dark and cold battlefield or curled up in a puddle on some prison floor. The idea that he wouldn’t have makes his head hurt to think about. It’s not how his life works. Good things don’t happen without a great price.

That much he’s learned now.

Whatever this is, the only way it can end is with a huge fallout and a good deal of pain. Putting his trust in the mortal is foolish and setting himself up to be destroyed again, because even the best-case scenario will end in the blink of an eye when a few decades snatches Stark away.

He doesn’t know how he’ll live with that.

Mortals are dangerous like that, dying from the day they’re conceived. He can’t let himself get too attached.

In some ways, though, Loki supposes it’s too late for that—Stark has given him the closest thing to a home he’s had in years, and it’s not the tower or Banner’s apartment.

Norns, this can only end badly…

 


	42. Shifter

Loki adjusts the buckle on the medical ID bracelet Stark insists he wear as though he is some helpless child incapable of taking care of himself, but he’d ended up acquiescing rather quickly considering his usual stubbornness. He just doesn’t see a point in arguing with the mortal about something so trivial when it reassures him of Loki’s safety.

The leather hangs more loosely than it’s really intended to and brushes the back of his hand, just tight enough to stay on. He’s not fond of such things being tight around his wrists for reasons he’s otherwise left long ago in the past where they belong. Besides, he has more important things to focus his mind on at the moment.

He’s hovering in the doorway because he hasn’t had a chance to learn this room at all, obviously. Not at all due to the fact that his stomach has become nearly as much of an abyss as the void itself. His fingers twitch slightly as he takes a measured breath to slow his heart rate and lessen the pain of the arc reactor. It’s hardly as though he thinks the man is absent despite his silence—one which neither of them is apparently keen to break—as Loki can hear his breathing from here given the acoustics of the small room and his inhumanly strong senses. Blindness hasn’t strengthened them, exactly, but he’s become even more attuned to the small details than he was before simply out of necessity.

The man’s breathing only alters slightly, which Loki takes to be a relatively good sign. He pushes back the tension in his limbs and slips into a mask of calm as he bows. Not quite as deeply as their meeting at the airport, but still respectfully. He blames it on old habits.

“Do you need something?” the other asks, breaking the near-tangible silence that hung between them.

Loki shakes his head and takes a small step forward, just enough to cross the slightly raised threshold. “Actually, that’s the same question I was going to ask  _you.”_

There’s a pause, and he decides that never in his life has he been more irritated with body language. At least Stark explains himself when he forgets, but other people are just annoying.

With a sigh, he rubs the bridge of his nose to preemptively soothe the headache he knows will be coming if the conversation continues like this. “Your work,” Loki explains slowly with the sort of emphasis that is reserved for dealing with small, thick-headed children, although his heart is still pounding in his chest. “How may I be of aid?”

“You want to _help?”_

He can’t help a derisive laugh, but tries to minimize the abrasiveness of his response. “Not particularly, but I am like your Widow in that I do not enjoy being indebted to anyone. If I am to take shelter here, I will not do so without returning compensation in full. Besides, the entire city reeks of illness, and it is rather irritating.”

Alright, so he might have failed.

“Right…” Banner mutters under his breath, quietly enough that a human wouldn’t pick it up. Apparently he was never informed about the keenness of Asgardian senses, but Loki’s not planning to tell him unless it comes up. Knowledge is power, after all, and it’s better to have the advantage.

The thing about growing up on the front lines is that fear of physical injury has to be channelled through to something that won’t get you killed. Some of his first memories are of swords and shouts, to be honest; it’s just part of his life. The gut-wrenching, dry-mouthed, shaking terror that once came in the face of severe harm? He fashioned it into cruel words and manipulated truths sharper than any blade has ever been. Flesh can heal, after all, but if you damage a man’s mind then no amount of healing stones and medicine can heal him.

It doesn’t make for fantastic diplomacy, but in moments such as those that’s not normally an issue.

Unfortunately, this is one of the rare times in which both excessive self-defence and a civil tongue are needed to sit together, and it takes a conscious effort not to just snap at the man and make an appropriately dramatic exit. Instead, he focuses on where his voice came from and walks carefully next to the near wall, but he still manages to catch the corner of a chair on his right and scowls at it. The rest of the rooms he’d gotten a rough feel of while Banner was out, but his bedroom and what feels like a small office from the change in airflow he hadn’t. He does have enough decency to respect the man’s privacy, after all, but that means he’s more likely to trip in here. Not liking the appearance of weakness he’s always felt it brings, he’s avoided using his cane around him as much as possible. It’s slightly counter-productive right now considering the pain in his hip from the sharp edge of the wood.

At a slight rustle of papers Loki turns toward the sound. In theory Banner is sitting relatively close to if not on the floor, judging from where his voice had come from when he spoke, and the fact that he had never heard him rise. The papers sounded near to the ground as well, supporting his supposition, so he takes a measured step toward the man and crouches down in front of him.

Banner’s breaths speed just slightly. Good and bad, he supposes, because a little fear is a good thing but a lot will likely end in severe pain if not death.

With his fingers steepled and elbows resting on his knees, Loki sneers. “You need not hide your disgust for me, mortal. Your alter-ego shattering my spine against the concrete made your feelings toward me quite clear.”

“The other guy… did _what?”_

He shrugs, suppressing a shudder at the memory. Lying paralyzed while his body repaired itself was terrifying (thank the Norns he was close enough to the scepter to draw from its power), and it was only with a great deal of willpower that he’d managed to drag himself out of the hole before the Avengers arrived. Turning to see them standing over him with weapons at the ready wasn’t his proudest moment.

“You were really quite histrionic, but it was a battle; we were but chess pieces on opposing sides. Such is the way of war—I hold no grudge.”

“I can’t say the same.”

“No, I had no expectation that you would.”

The silences and pauses in conversation between him and Stark, even when he’s burning with the tongues of anger’s fire and tension is high, have long since gained the comfort of mutual understanding. It’s disconcerting, really, when juxtaposed to how the air seems to hang heavily now as he waits for Banner to speak. For the second time in the past five minutes, Loki curses his inability to read the man’s body language.

“Do you regret it?” he finally asks quietly, as though to do so any louder would bring about Loki attacking him or the like.

Cocking his head and shifting his arms so that he’s better balanced on the balls of his feet, Loki considers the question briefly.

“You wish for me to say yes, do you not? You hope that I am redeemable and can change as you believe the Avengers to have, and can be once more reminded of my morals?”

Again there is a pause, until he raises an eyebrow. “Do you not?”

“Yeah,” Banner finally admits, “sort of.”

Loki can’t help but snicker at the sheer foolish sentimentality of that; it’s so stereotypically human. “I may be the god of lies, but know this: the circumstances were less than ideal, but I never compromised my Asgardian morals. I am no passive human; I was raised with battle in my blood, and I do not regret my actions.  Regret is for fools trapped in their own past, who let their demons consume them until their own blood drips down their arms and they succumb to death in an idiot’s arms like a reinhiskur who bled out slowly by a foolish child’s misaimed arrow.”

“Well aren’t you just a cheery one today?” asks an irritatingly familiar voice from the direction of the doorway.

He rolls his eyes and lets out a long-suffering sigh. He can match the man’s sarcasm word by word. “Fantastic. _You’re_ awake.”

“Are you kidding me? If anyone was going to be asleep right now it’d be you, asshole.”

“Honestly, idiot mortal, have you never noticed that my body has completely rejected synchronization with humanity’s circadian rhythm? Hence why some days I sleep past noon and others I wake at two or three in the morning.”

“And you’ve never come down to the workshop to hang out?” Stark asks, his voice rising in pitch slightly as though he’s pouting. “Rude.”

Loki stands, preferring to be at equal level with him instead of Banner.

“Desk on your left,” Stark tells him as he moves toward the door. It’s become reflex, Loki’s noticed over the past few months—as though the man has, without any conscious effort on either of their parts, become his eyes.

He puts space (and Stark as well, to an extent, since the beast seems to respect the fool) between himself and Banner while he scowls. “Yes, I’m well aware. I’ve already run into it.”

Stark snorts and breaks down into laughter like a young boy who’s been told a completely ridiculous joke. “Oh my fucking god, Prancer, nice entrance.”

In one fluid motion—well, technically two, since he finds the mortal’s arm first—he has Stark pinned to the creaky door frame by his throat, the blade normally kept in his boot pressing slightly above his grip.

“Loki–” Banner starts, but Tony cuts him off.

“It’s cool, man, he’s not going to hurt me. Take a breather there; I like having my tech in one piece and you jumping around smashing shit isn’t exactly conducive to that.”

“You seem to forget the last time I held a knife to your neck, fool. Did I hesitate to draw blood then? Do you honestly believe that if you hadn’t run when you did I wouldn’t have slit your throat and left you to suffocate without so much as an agonized cry? I have few qualms about killing.”

“Well, yeah,” Stark reasons, his voice strained from Loki’s tight hold, “but you were kind of coming down from a crazy rampage of craziness at that point.”

“And how do you know that I won’t do so again? That this is not but a masterfully crafted mask and I’ll finish the job tomorrow, or next week, or next year… whenever you least expect it and are completely unprepared?”

As he’d considered before, the silence is one of thought rather than a stand-off. When Stark does speak again, it’s with a far softer voice.

“Because of this.” Fingers tap in a short three-beat rhythm against the glass of his arc reactor—enough pressure to feel them, but not cause too much more pain.

Because he had survived. Because the mortal had kept vigil at his bedside for a month while he lay comatose, through what could have easily become deathwatch at any point, and still stayed with him through the next month while he recovered, despite the constant abuse Loki would throw at him. Because he did everything in his power to get him away from SHIELD despite the incredible cost.

Because Loki trusts him with everything.

And damn him if that’s not the most terrifying realization, because he thinks that sort of blind faith in another person, no matter how close they are to you in companionship or in blood, is the most disgusting and immature action one can ever take. Trust is for innocent, ignorant children.

So what does that make him?

Teeth bared, Loki tightens his grip for a moment and hisses in the man’s ear. “If you _ever_ treat me with such disrespect again, I’ll make your end far more painful than you could imagine to be possible.”

The ‘In front of Banner’ at the end of the former sentence goes unsaid, but Stark knows him well enough to read between the lines.

Loki forces himself calm enough to shove the man away with one last snarl, and storms out of the room. On his way through the kitchen he contemplates smashing two of the three chairs and using them for firewood, so that he’ll never chance having to sit with either of them at meals, but that wouldn’t help his situation. He settles for kicking the table and chairs over towards the wall and lets them fall to their sides in a clattering heap. They’re light, and not very satisfying, so he takes out his remaining anger on the furniture in his room. Training would be far better, but his body isn’t capable of the amount of exertion he requires to do any good without further injuring himself.

He sends one of the throwing knives that he’d bought before he’d forged his own at the wall with what should be, in theory, about the right amount of force to bury it to the hilt (he _would_ like it back, after all).There’s no use to anything at this point, really—no purpose, no end goal—and the burning rage soon subsides into hot coal. With one last angry howl he drops face-first onto the stiff bed and lies there fuming. Fifteen or twenty seconds later he has to brace his collarbone on his arm to stop putting so much pressure on the reactor and ribs around it, because they _cut out fucking half his sternum._ Loki has no idea how they managed, considering surgical steel wouldn’t be nearly strong enough; few earth metals could seriously harm him without some form of magical strengthening, let alone saw through bone. High-powered laser, perhaps? It’s a disconcerting thought, and he has little desire to dwell on it.

Norns forbid the humans start using something like that in non-medical applications against an áss or vanr. Therein lies another issue he wouldn’t like to consider. It would likely end in slaughter, though he knows not on which side.

Those thoughts evaporate as quickly as they appeared, because his chest aches with a vengeance. Yes, his pain tolerance is exceedingly high, but this isn’t torture… at least not in the conventional sense. There’s nobody to turn his anger against besides himself and perhaps Stark for doing this, no one to defy and in doing so strengthen his resolve. He’s always been a bit of a masochist in that regard, he supposes, and will sneer and laugh until his torturer’s restraint snaps in rage and they truly use full force. Let them do their worst; he’s never been broken and never will. Cracked once or twice, perhaps _(endless nothingness, burning freezing numbness, ultimate loss),_ but inspiring such a loss of control makes the resulting assault on his person all the more enjoyable. It’s one thing he truly held over Thor, because whilst the golden son endured out of stoicism Loki did so out of glee. That’s not to say he feels no pain, but the pleasure of the power shift? It is so much stronger with the knowledge that the fool who dares attack him will slowly realize that even at their greatest strength they can hold no true control over him. Loki’s been thrown into dungeons on occasion as well, but given enough room to pace he’ll only use it to plot his enemy’s demise.

Either way gives him a powerful bow to draw slowly and hold with increasing tension, until he can loose a flaming arrow at his target. Now he has no target at which to aim and a weapon too strong to hold taut, arm locked in a fool’s attempt to hold it in place, and when his fingers slip off the bowstring it will no doubt lash his forearm. The resulting injuries are far worse than one who’s never done so would expect.

At a hollow creak he snaps his head up toward the door (not like it changes anything since he could hear fine as he was, but it’s still reflex), inadvertently shifting his weight onto his chest and the arc reactor. Electric pain sears outward, radiating from the half-healed bone down to the base of his spine and up into his skull like the times he’d ventured too close when Thor was learning to command the storms properly and was hit by a stray bolt or two of lightning.

Loki hisses in pain under his breath. As he forces himself to his knees he snarls at the man, low and feral, like some wild beast. “You should not have come here, fool.”

“Loki, I–”

The anger and humiliation that fuel him to lunge at the mortal take up too much of his thoughts, to the point of overpowering the more rational portions, and in his lapse of care misjudges the distance to the side of the bed. Only so many years of training manage to keep him on his feet, and he knows Stark saw his mistake. To reclaim what honor he has left, his instinct tells him to lash out and he does—his fist just barely skims the tips of the mortal’s hair as the man ducks out of the way.

In what Loki can only call a bout of sheer stupidity, Stark catches his arm before he pulls away.

“Woah there, tiger. Broken jaws aren’t fun.”

“Let go of me.” It’s difficult to grit out, and even more so to restrain his anger.

Stark sighs, and rests a gentle (too gentle to be honest, too familiar to be any more than a ruse) hand on his shoulder. “Loki…”

He tries to pull away but the vacuous mortal holds him in place. Given his strength he _could,_ but spending so long around the man has conditioned him to suppress his strength. Ironic, really, considering the fact that not fifteen seconds ago he’d attacked without considering that at all.

“Look, Loki. That was stupid and I wasn’t thinking about Bruce. That’s what this is, right?”

Is this discussion really necessary? He wants to yell at Stark until he cowers and leaves, but instead gives a curt nod.

“Okay, I get it, and I’m really sorry. I could probably come up with an excuse, but that wouldn’t really be fair to you.”

This time, when he turns his back the man lets him. “I don’t trust him. I don’t _like_ him, and the only reason I consented to any of this is that you do. He may have enough control to scrape by, but nowhere near enough to keep his wits about him should something larger than a man dying of illness come to pass here.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve met enough shapeshifters before—Norns, I _am_ one, or was before my fall— to gauge their power of restraint.”

“But still. I mean, he’s not one of you crazy magic-wielding aliens, he’s a guy who got hit by–”

“–gamma radiation to save a remarkably fatuous child,” Loki finishes for him. “I know the story.”

“I’m just saying that he’s different than whatever you’re thinking of.”

“No, he’s _not._ That’s my entire point! His first shift occurred before he was properly prepared for it, and the coordination between its trigger and his self-sacrificial mindset would have easily been enough to cause a rift in personality. I’ve seen it before, though not to this degree. That makes him dangerous and volatile, and the chances of him learning to master the shift are almost entirely nonexistent. He’s a _novice,”_ Loki spits as he turns around to glare in his direction, “and a human one at that. He has neither talent nor proper training, and no mentor to give it.”

“He’s human, asshole. Gamma radiation doesn’t make us magical apprentices. This sure as hell isn’t Asgard, in case you haven’t noticed.”

He snarls. “You fools are so insistent upon your beliefs that you could not see the obvious were it handed to you in a golden goblet! Have you never thought it odd that the primary races on _nine different realms_ are so similar? That we breathe similar enough air to walk on the other worlds without trouble? That we have two legs and five fingers on each hand? That we can survive on near enough the same food?”

“Well, yeah, but–”

“We share a common ancestor, you utter idiot! Every race that stands upright, should you trace our lineage back to the very beginnings of our mother ash Yggdrasil, sprung from the two survivors of last Ragnarök—Líf and Lífþrasir. Life and her lover.”

“So you and I are related? Oh god, family members. Let me just run for my life now.”

Loki runs a hand through his hair and exhales sharply. “Firstly, do not many of this world’s creation myths begin far more recently? We are both offshoots of the same tree, but split so long ago that we are not only different races, but different _species._ My point in all this is that at the lowest level, we hail from the same origins. Our genetic structures… not even that, but something embedded even deeper in our code, if you will, is the same. We have inherent connections to the universe around us, but the capabilities to access them among humanity seem to have become buried over time.”

“I am so fucking confused right now and I don’t even know what we’re talking about anymore.”

Oh, for Valhalla’s sake. “They lie dormant unless activated by an external force. In this case, it would seem that force is a particular set of gamma rays. I have told you so many times before that your kind is able to learn magic, in theory. The true kind, not just sorcery and sleight of hand. I assume that’s the reason he transforms instead of dying—that ability was close enough to the surface to be jumpstarted by the high level of radiation. It’s a survival instinct we cannot consciously control. But to gain such a powerful ability with no knowledge of what it is or how to control it?” Loki growls at the mix of emotions that simmer in his mind. Anger, apprehension, loathing, and a traitorous hint of curiosity war for attention, but he pushes them back and smothers them as best he can. “He will bring this building crashing down around our heads. In case you are unaware?” Loki hisses, “My ability to heal is not what it once was. I may not be as fragile as you, but I’m at significantly more risk than I’m used to. Should he transform again, he’ll come after me first, and I won’t have an energy source to draw from this time. I’m a survivor beyond all else, and I will not die at the hands of a rogue shifter!”

“Woah, man. Chill. It’s gonna be fine and the Hulk kind of likes me. Mainly in an I-won’t-smash-you-on-purpose kind of way, but it’s something. You two will get along fine if you’d both stop poking each other with pointy sticks.”

He growls again and turns his head away in a futile attempt to calm himself.

“Wait, so, I get that you don’t want to go all sage master or whatever with him, but couldn’t you give him a couple pointers?”

“This isn’t the sort of thing I can _tutor,_ Stark. I have no firsthand experience with this except for attacks by mages driven mad by it. They weren’t the sort of situations where we could sit down and chat. They were kill-or-be-killed, and as you can see, I wasn’t the one killed.”

“Loki… couldn’t you at least _try?_ I mean, he’s kind of a friend and it would probably help make the general mood of this place a little less unsettling.”

“No.”

“…please?”

He sighs, trying to ignore the electric hum that seems to follow the lines of his ribs around the cursed reactor. “I _can’t–!_ There is no way for me to undo what has been done, especially with what was taken from me in the Void. Maybe if I had it I could at least try, but as I am there is nothing. This isn’t some separate entity who can be banished with the right spell, the only one Banner is fighting is himself. Nothing was added that day, it was only unlocked. He broke into two separate pieces trapped in the same body—one made up of primarily his ‘good’ qualities, the other all the rage, and pain, and terror that had always existed. Isn’t that right, Banner?”

Stark bumps his shoulder against Loki’s when he spins around, jarring him enough to send another bolt of pain through his veins. He grimaces, but doesn’t dare do any more than that. _Especially_ in front of the man in the direction of the doorway.

_”HOLY FUCKING SHIT, HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN THERE?”_

“Long enough,” Banner says calmly, although the slight raise in pitch would suggest otherwise.

“Around the point of ‘rogue shifter,’ I believe.”

“How did _you_ know?” Tony exclaims, scandalized.

Loki rolls his eyes behind his sunglasses and cuffs the man lightly upside the head.

“Ow! What the fuck was that for?”

“I am blind, idiot, not deaf.”

“You’re an awful person.”

“So I’m told. May as well play the part, should I not?”

The mortal catches his wrist, with what must be intentional gentleness. To avoid hurting the cuts, he assumes, not that he cares much. They’re trivial and he’d rather feel them so he can pay the penance he owes. Not that it will ever be enough… perhaps the reactor is only fair.

“Loki…”

“Don’t, Stark. Just… don’t.”  He finds the scratched wooden desk to his right and his cane leaning against it. “I’ll be back in a little while.”

“Where are you going?”

Loki sighs and shakes his head. “For a walk.”

“Want me to come?”

“I need space to clear my head. As I said, I’ll return in a little while.”

*’*’*

Bruce just watches him for a minute, brow furrowed, until Tony starts to get a bit uncomfortable.

“How did you do that?” he eventually asks.

“Do what?”

“Get him under control like that. He’s practically _made_ of crazy.”

Tony shrugs and flops down on the bed. It creaks slightly ominously beneath him, but if it can hold the god and his ridiculous weight, it can hold his no problem. He hopes. “I don’t know, I just talk to him. Distracting him is pretty effective as long as you don’t hit any touchy subjects. Fair warning, though—there are a _lot_ of emotional mines in that guy’s head. I guess mainly don’t let him get to you, because he lashes out big-time when he feels threatened.”

“Tony, he _held a knife to your throat.”_

“Yeah, he does that. “

“And you’re okay with that?”

“He’s never actually hur– okay, that’s not entirely true, but he hasn’t seriously hurt me in a long time. We’ve kind of come to a mutual understanding. I think you’ll like him when he gets over the worst of it. Give him a week or two.”

“I don’t trust him, Tony, and I don’t like this. I trust your judgement, but having him around brings back too many memories.”

Tony nods, thinking back to the first few times they’d met in the park and the coffee shop. “It did for me too, but he’s different now. Enough that I can look at him and not have flashbacks, which is saying something.”

Bruce sighs.“I’ll give him until this weekend.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people have asked about my research for writing Loki, so I put together a masterlist of some of my favorite resources on blindness for anyone who was looking: http://aconitine-apothecary.tumblr.com/post/72287803654/
> 
> Also, there isn't much on Amursk on the internet, even through a search in Russian, so I'm going to take some artistic liberties with what it's like. This is probably the best of what I've found: http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2008-02-26/news/0802250967_1_vladimir-putin-russian-cities-amur-river


	43. Faultline

The days tick by, closing in on the weekend when Bruce is going to make his decision, but Loki only grows increasingly irritable and threatens Tony multiple times with varying degrees of severity. He catches him snapping his head up at irregular intervals, snatching glances over his shoulder or to the side as if he’s heard something Tony can’t. He can’t tell if it’s paranoia or anxiety from living in such close quarters with Bruce (who, from the occasional times Loki lets his masks drop slightly when Bruce is out of the building and lets something slip out, he’s more freaked out about than he lets on), or him actually hearing something he considers a threat. Sure, Loki tends to either err on the side of caution or completely say fuck it, but the guy’s got damn good instincts and it’s freaking Tony out a bit.

He tries to work Loki’s walls back down enough to convince Bruce that he’s not one hundred percent psycho-killer, but for every time that he manages to get him relatively calm when they’re alone the god snaps back to pissed-off asshole mode within a few minutes even worse than before for Tony’s efforts. It totally sucks, but he’s honestly a bit more worried about what’s gotten under Loki’s skin to spin him in a complete one-eighty. The number of times that he’s stormed out the door and disappeared for an hour is higher than the number of days it’s been since his thing with Bruce even started. At night he finds him lying on his back sideways on the bed, usually still in street clothes and his boots (and Tony’s always wondered about that because he and Bruce don’t, and Loki hadn’t worn them very often in the tower), staring up at the ceiling. Tony’s caught him yawning a couple times but he never seems to sleep, and the time that he tried to talk to him Loki just snapped at him and threw a couple knives in his vague direction.

Apparently Bruce saw him sitting out on the riverbank on Wednesday evening, which Tony considers a good sign that whatever it is, Loki’s working it out like he used to on occasion in the tower. The god gets back later than usual that night, after night has blanketed the city with darkness, but he seems to be a lot calmer than the past five or six days.

“See?” Tony says to Bruce when the god’s disappeared into his room saying that he’s tired and needs to sleep. “He just needed time to adjust.”

“Ten minutes of isn’t enough, Tony. How do I know he’s not going to flip the switch back the other way in a couple days?”

“Bruce, you know I don’t vouch for many people.”

“When SHIELD called, they said you were compromised. I’ve been trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, because you’re the one who got me back on their, um, good side, but…”

“But what?”

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m starting to think you might be.”

_”What?”_

“Tony, you’ve obviously known him for a while. You’ve lost perspective.”

“The fuck-? You were supposed to be the understanding one!”

“I’m trying to help. We saw what he can do, and he’s right about me not having good control over the… Other Guy. I was good here, I could _help.”_

“Please, just until Monday. If you still think that, just give us a few hours head-start and you can call SHIELD. Please, Bruce.”

He crosses his arms and takes a step back. “Monday. But this is his final chance.”

“Thanks a million, man.”

Bruce just shakes his head and sighs before he walks away.

*

Loki doesn’t show by lunchtime, but when Tony checks in on him he’s curled around a pillow fast asleep. He takes it as positive, since the god won’t sleep if he thinks there’s any form of immediate danger.

It’s not until around four the next afternoon that Loki emerges bleary-eyed in his pyjamas, a deep red blanket wrapped around his shoulders.

“What happened, Dasher?” he asks as the god gropes, well, blindly for chair beside him and Tony leads his arm to the back of it. He laughs quietly as he tries to figure out where the hell Loki’s part was and which side the wild locks should be on. “Did you, like, build a blanket cocoon and emerge as Medusa or what? Your hair is hopeless.”

Loki leans into his hand slightly and mumbles something unintelligible but vaguely grumpy.

Right. Not a morning person. Or, well, just-woken-up person, considering that it’s late o’clock in the afternoon.

“Want coffee or something? Bruce actually keeps food in his kitchen, it’s weird as hell.”

With a yawn, the god lays his head in his arms on the table. “Latte.”

“Okay, first of all, does this look like Manhattan to you? We have a coffee pot, not an espresso machine. Secondly, I’m pretty sure tables are meant for food, not naptime.” A grunt is the only response he gets, so he figures out where Bruce stashes the beans and how the coffee maker works, and flips the switch. There are a couple apples on the counter which seem to be in relatively edible shape. Those’ll work.

Tony drops back into his chair and, bored, decides to test the limits a little while Loki seems to be in a relatively decent (if tired) mood. Biting his lip in concentration he carefully balances one of the apples on his head. The god makes an irritated noise and manages to grab it off without sitting up or sending it onto the floor, then promptly reverts to his previous state of half-asleepness with the apple on the far side of the table from Tony.

“Asshole, I was totally going to get two or three on top of each other.”

Loki turns his head toward him, not bothering to lift it from his arms, and the fact that he can barely hold his eyes open and his hair’s a wreck sort of nullify the scowl that he sends Tony’s way. “Go t’ Muspelheim.”

“Hurtful, Rudolph. Really hurtful.”

“What must I do to silence you?”

“Actually sitting up would be an awesome start. You can’t really drink coffee with your face on the table.”

The god swats at him half-heartedly.

“You’re in an awfully good mood today. I mean, compared to this past week. Did you finally work out your anger problems or are you going to start feeling green too?”

“Muspelheim,” he huffs. “Go. Now.”

“What the hell is that, even? One of you guys’ crazy planet things?”

“The closest thing to the stereotypical version of Christianity’s hell. A realm of fire, home to Surtur and the eldjötnar… fire demons, I think you’d ca– what in the _Nine_ are you doing?”

Tony laughs and focuses on his task. “I told you, I want to balance them both.”

“I will kill you with those apples and dump your body in the Amur river,” Loki tells him with a serious expression.

“…I’m waiting.”

The god shrugs. “I’ll do it later when I’m more awake.”

“Keep procrastinating like that and you’ll never get anything done, y’know. It’s a bad habit.”

“Mm, is that so?”

“Yep.”

“I’m known for my bad habits.” With a smirk, Loki finally bothers to sit up, which is when Tony belatedly realizes that–

“Holy shit, are you actually wearing short sleeves?”

Loki pulls the blanket tighter around himself, and glances over with clouded eyes for a second or two before looking down. “I’m going to change when I’m done eating, don’t worry.”

“What? No, I didn’t mean– I was just surprised. Never seen you do that before. Didn’t even know you _had_ short-sleeved shirts.”

“I usually wear them as a bottom layer.”

“Yeah, you’re kind of ridiculous about the thousand layers and the high collars and boots. I mean, you look damn good, but I thought you were mister snow cone—how much shit do you need to wear at a time?”

“It’s a holdover, really,” Loki explains, toying with the fringe along the edge of the blanket. “On Asgard, the preference primarily leaned towards heavier, protective clothing—the men especially tended to wear good deal of leather and often a bit of plated mail under the outermost layers. As for the collars, it’s partly fashion and partly practicality. Yes, one’s throat is left open, but it provides at least some protection. Thor is the only one among his friends to not wear a high collar—well, I don’t know for sure about Volstagg considering the sheer mass of his hair but I believe he does, but Hogun did not as he is Vanr—and it is sheer arrogance, really. Also slightly rude, but that’s another matter entirely. My point,” he says, and runs a hand through his hair, “is that while I consider it normal to think of your kind in Midgardian clothing, I find it incredibly disconcerting to be so myself. Your clothing is so light and unprotective that it feels like walking naked through the streets should I wear what you would consider an average outfit. I’d much prefer to wear what I tend to.”

He nods, turning Loki’s words over in his head. Makes sense to an extent, he supposes. “So, did you ever wear short-sleeves there, though? I mean, Thor shows up half the time all decked out and the the rest of the time like he’s coming to a battle beach party.”

“I am not Thor, Stark, but yes. When I was significantly younger I would occasionally wear shorter sleeves, but haven’t for a long time.”

“Why not?”

“It’s–” Loki shakes his head.

“Please?”

Tony could swear that at least twenty emotions flit across the god’s face in the couple seconds that follow. His brow furrows, lips turn down then to a grimace, nose wrinkles for half a moment before the expressionless mask returns.

Just before he asks again, Loki holds his right arm out and, like before, it’s littered with tallies.

“I don’t want pity from you or anyone else. What I do is mine and mine alone, not yours to worry over.”

“I get that, although I’m still going to worry. Too late, sorry. But… you said you haven’t for a long time.”

“Stark, I don’t know if I want to speak of it right now.”

Loki’s mask slips for just a second, enough for Tony to catch the smallest hint of a too-familiar frown. He tries to gauge Loki’s mindset enough to do the most good, and it’s difficult. Stupid, complicated asshole. Though, granted, it’s like what he’s said to the god before—mutual fascination in the inexplicable is what made them stupid enough to start talking in the first place, and the continual (and most likely impossible to satisfy) need to figure out what makes the other tick. It’s hard to say for sure considering the whole week of angry-Loki hell, but… oh, fuck it.

Tony slips his hand under Loki’s where it rests on the table and twines his fingers with the god’s. When Loki tries to pull away, he tightens his grip just slightly—it’s not like he could hold him in place if Loki really decided he wasn’t okay with it, but judging from the fact that the resistance stops it’s enough of a signal to stay.

“Okay.”

He looks up, confused. “What?”

“I said okay. I’m not going to make you pour out the champagne glass of overflowing angst that is your life story when you’re not ready to. Have I ever pushed you too far?”

“Yes.” The god’s gaze turns back toward the table.

“Oh, shut up. I try, okay? I’m not good at all this shit, I’m good with computers and machinery. People are too… illogical. Most of them are idiots, and the few who aren’t are assholes.”

Loki manages to get a quiet laugh out of that, though his eyes stay downcast. “Was that supposed to be an insult or a compliment?”

“Both.”

“I’m flattered.”

He squeezes Loki’s hand with what little reassurance he can offer. “Hey, man, look. You need to stop beating yourself up about what’s happened. I know there’s been a lot of fucked-up shit, and I’m not saying you should try to forget about it, but we’ve got to find a different way for you to deal with things instead of slicing yourself open. Okay?”

“I do what I do as punishment and penance. It should not be painless.”

Yeah, okay. Right. Issues piled a mile high, and Tony is _not_ trained for this shit at all. Still, it’s not like he’s just going to sit back and eat popcorn while Loki destroys himself mentally and physically.

“Penance for what?”

Whatever emotion had begun to rear its head is immediately suffocated as every self-protective wall snaps back into place and Loki’s expression goes blank. “You know what, fool. I told you once and I do not plan to do so again.”

“For your sons.”

The silence is answer enough.

“I know you aren’t going to believe me at first, but you’ve got to at least listen. Alright? Because this is important.”

“…I’ll do as you ask, but make no promises as to my thoughts on your words.”

“What happened to your kids? That wasn’t your fault.”

“It was _my_ crimes they were murdered for! Had I only behaved, they’d have never been harmed!”

“Did you ever lay a finger on them to hurt them?”

“I would never–!”

“Woah, hey, chill… I get that. But did you know that would happen when you led the attack?”

Loki’s gaze slides even further away. “It wasn’t the attack on Midgard.”

“Not my point. Did you know they would get hurt when you did whatever it was?”

“I never would have if I had, you foo–”

“And did you have absolutely any idea that would even cross anyone’s mind?”

The god chokes out what sounds concerningly like a sob, minus the tears, and Tony turns to face him completely.

“Then it’s not your fault, Loki. Everything that happened, all the fucking bullshit that Asgard did? Not your fault.  I mean, there are plenty of things that _are_ your fault, but the same thing goes for me. I’ve done a lot of questionable shit, stuff that’s gotten people hurt and killed, and I’ll never stop hating myself. But the things that Asgard did to ‘punish’ you were just fucking wrong, Loki; they did enough, and you don’t need to do anything else to yourself for someone else’s crimes.”

Loki shakes his head, brows drawn together and lips parted slightly. “If I hadn’t acted, they’d still be alive.”

“You don’t know that for sure. What-ifs are awful things that won’t help—I think it might have been you who taught me that. What happened happened, and we can’t go back. Life’s fucking awful like that. Can we at least try to find something for you to do for them instead of cutting yourself?”

“What if I don’t _want_ to? Can’t you just leave me be?”

“Not with this, Loki. I’m going to keep trying to help until you realize that you need me to.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My life, as of today, just became absolutely insane. I was accepted into college yesterday, spent today calling people to set everything up, and will be starting classes on Tuesday. That means my time to write will be seriously limited this week, and I don't know for certain how things will progress in the future, so updates might not be as regular. _HOWEVER,_ that is by no means to say that I'm stopping work on this fic. I'll write with what time I have (I'm going to finish this fic if it kills me, and I'm nowhere near done with it yet), but I've done this dance before and art school is absolutely ridiculous in terms of workload.
> 
> If you're ever wondering what the status is, I keep updates under the tag 'halfstep updates' on my tumblr, or you can always shoot me an ask or an email.


	44. Sentiment

He’s well aware that the past week has done him no favors in Banner’s eyes, and as such will be at least relatively cautious as to how he proceeds, considering that at the moment there are few other options.

No one said he wasn’t allowed to be passive-aggressive, though.

When the man returns late that night, Loki’s sitting against the armrest of the tattered couch with his legs slung over Stark’s lap in what he feels is a clear signal of dominance and possession. The mortal belongs to _him,_ beyond all else, and unquestioningly allows him to assert his control. Blind or not, Loki has command over one of the most—if not _the_ most—powerful men on this realm, and Banner would do well to know that.

He very deliberately keeps his gaze where it had fallen when he’d started reading a bit ago, and skims through brailled literature on Stark’s tablet with little interest. This is the first day he’s spent without the constant ache in his chest, and damn them all to Niflheim if he’s going to waste it with pleasantries.

“Bruce! Hey man, what’s up? Saving babies?” Stark’s exuberance is annoying, and he briefly considers kneeing him in the face.

“No babies today, but there was a kid with a pretty bad cough.”

With the air of nonchalance that he’s perfected into an art over the centuries he resolutely ignores the simpleton, choosing instead to flip to the next page and take a sip of the bitter coffee Stark had made that has long since gone cold. The book he’s reading is rather short and human, but introduces some interesting points and perhaps a way to better explain Yggdrasil to St–

The infuriating mortal breaks off his thoughts. “Stop being an asshole, asshole.”

Loki glances up just long enough to acknowledge Banner’s presence and thus appease him, then turns back to his book.

“Ask me later, I’ll explain,” Stark answers to some unheard query.

He bristles at being  left out of whatever conversation they’re having, because the silence persists for another few moments before Banner’s padding footfalls recede.

It’s only through an incredible amount of control that Loki doesn’t just attack one of them right then. They would deserve it, for treating him in such a manner, and he’d feel little remorse. He ought to string them up by their ankles and show _them_ what it is to be blind, ought to carve out their eyes slowly, with his dullest knife, so that they feel every t–

“Hey,” Stark cuts in again, and pats Loki’s leg where it lies across his own. “If you’re over there planning murder, can I interest you in some more pleasant alternatives? I hear dodgeball’s fun. Actually, no, scratch that—no dodgeball for you. That would be scary as fuck and still end up with people dead.”

“Now whyever would you assume I’m considering to kill people, mortal fool?”

“Oh, come on. You don’t think I had a silent conversation about you without realizing that you’d realize we were having a silent conversation about you, do you? Generally it’s nice to just ask first instead of starting to plot our painful demise.”

“Perhaps you should have considered that I would, should you continue to disrespect me simply because I am without sight."

"Loki…"

"No, Stark. You can treat me like an equal or treat me like a child, but do not dare to think you may switch between the two as you please." 

Stark sighs heavily, and the glass of his tablet taps hollowly on the rickety wood coffee table when he sets it down. “I'm trying, Loki. I really am. I'm used to how things were at the tower, where it was just you and me, and sometimes Pepper. Even at SHIELD it was mostly just the two of us. I'm close friends with you, and I'm close friends with Bruce in a different way, and the tension between you two is awkward as hell. I'm trying, okay?”

“You’re doing a truly awful job of it.”

“I’m shit at emotions and judging other people’s beyond using it for business, thought you’d figured that out by now.”

“This isn’t emotion, you sorry fool, this is simple Asgar– human decency. If you feel it necessary to speak of something behind my back, at least do it _behind my back._ I am not some babe who needs to be coddled!”

A hand settles on his calf where his legs lie over the mortal’s. “Okay, Loki. Okay. This is the first time you’ve had your glasses off while Bruce has been around; he was asking about the scars.”

*’*’*

Loki’s expression immediately shutters and his trademark blank mask takes its place. Tony had known as soon as Banner had sent him a questioning look what Loki’s reaction would be, but it still sucks to see. Considering the way the guy primps in the mornings it’s not exactly hard to tell he’s a vain, kind of self-conscious bastard, and he almost always keeps any and all scars covered when he’s not at home.

When did he start thinking of the tower as Loki’s home? Hell, he hardly thought of it as his _own_ home, but it’s slowly become one. Well damn.

“Look–”

“I don’t have to see myself in a mirror to know how hideous I must look, Stark. You needn’t pretend otherwise.”

“I wasn’t going to say they’re pretty, Vixen.”

“Then what were you going to say?”

Tony leans over to take the other tablet from Loki and sets it beside his own on the coffee table that is marked with rings left behind from glasses years ago. “There are a lot of people out there who’ll bullshit and say that scars are what make you beautiful, or whatever hipsters are into these days. They’re not. But honestly? I don’t really focus on them all that much because I’ve gotten used to them and just see _you._ Sight or not, you’re Loki through and through.”

There’s no change in Loki’s expression, just an empty gaze, so Tony pats his leg. “C’mon, sunshine, stop moping. Don’t you have mischief to cause?”

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best choice of words, because it certainly gives the trickster ideas judging from the newly-found smirk.

“Nope, no no no, I didn’t mean that literally, don’t you dare do something ridiculously irritating to one or both of us in revenge. I mean, c’mon, switching the salt and sugar is so stereotypical I’m disappointed you actually used it.”

“Which is exactly why I did—you underestimate the depths to which I’ll stoop in order to inconvenience you.”

“You’re an asshole.”

Fuck if there’s anyone with crazier mood swings than Loki Son-of-Whoever, but the god sighs dramatically and rolls his eyes. “Must your mind always be so far in the gutter? Honestly.”

“I’m not the one who’s always taking normal swearing that way!”

“It’s hardly my fault that translation is often imprecise. I was not raised with your crass insults, and they are therefore interpreted without connotation.”

“Right, so what do you say then, if not shit like that?”

Loki hums thoughtfully. “Hálf-blóð lirfur-borða naut-ræktandi.”

Right. Because that’s helpful.

“It translates slightly oddly if you take it literally, but in essence it means half-breed maggot-eating, well… the last bit is technically ‘cattle-rider’, but in that instance you are free to interpret it as you like.”

“And you call _us_ crass?”

He smiles and winks, the cheeky– well… whatever he said. It wasn’t exactly a bad insult.

“Yes. You’re crass, we are truly offensive.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t. In fact you’re desperately, hopelessly in love with my penchant for devilry and roguish nature.”

“That’s not the word I used. It’s definitely uncontainable hatred.”

“Oh, but Stark—the opposite of love is apathy, and hatred is but a slightly more irritable sort of the former. Causing trouble is as much in your nature as it is in mine, even if you don’t care to admit it.”

“I am _not_ the god of chaos and mischief!”

“No, but you could destroy the world if you wished, could you not?”

Well, the world would be a bit difficult, but the helicarrier… that he could. He _did._ Said god doesn’t need to know that, though.

Apparently his silence is answer enough, because  Loki sits (now slightly in his space, not bothering to move his legs off his own) and gives the most terrifying grin Tony’s seen in months. “Exactly,” he says, in that dangerous voice that usually means he’s angry—except this definitely isn’t anger, it’s unsettling glee. “We are the same, Stark. You try to deny it but in the end it will always be there, that knowledge that everything you try to brush off as my insanity is really the truth behind yourself. You don’t want to acknowledge that our situations could have easily been reversed, that your heart is just as dark as mine. We’re all mad here, Stark.”

Well then.

“Okay, two things, Rudolph. First, was that a Lewis Carroll reference? And second, I’m pretty sure you’re the god of lies. Remember that bit?”

“Alice in Wonderland, yes. But if ever you want the truth, ask a liar—the best are those who speak most honestly.”

Loki’s said something along those lines before, he knows, although the details are lost to his memory. Twisting the truth or whatever, which in this case seems to be true.

“You need not speak it aloud, Stark,” Loki practically purrs in his ear, “but you must come to terms with the reality you refuse to see. Just imagine your power, and what you could do with it given the time and motivation. You could be a _god.”_

“Aaand, you’re being freaky now. I’m not a hero, not a villain, and definitely not a god. I’m Tony Stark. Hell, I get my own category.”

The Asgardian chuckles as he lays back again and picks up his tablet. “Just keep telling yourself that.”

*

Bruce is at his desk when Tony sticks his head into his room. It’s a rickety old thing (which seems to be a running theme) with one leg slightly too short so that it rocks whenever the weight distribution changes, but the carved patterns around the edge make him think that once it was actually pretty nice. Around him are a number of bottles and jars, and he’s mixing something quite intently.

“Hey, Bill Nye! You working on the next gen of supersoldier? Try to be careful this time, buddy, don’t want a new race of hulks running around.”

“It’s antibiotics; we’re running low and can’t get a shipment in for another week.”

“Well aren’t you fancy.”

The wire-frame reading glasses Bruce had on slip a bit when he turns, so he pulls them off. “You have that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you want to talk about something.”

Tony pouts. “That’s my normal face.”

“Exactly,” he agrees as he sets aside what he’d been working on. “So talk.”

What is it with people wanting him to just spit things out lately? Not that he’s ever been one to beat around the bush, but still. At least a _little_ intro is nice sometimes.

“Loki’s apparently in a decent mood again, like as consistently as it gets for him, so just be careful.”

“Wait, uh… I thought I was already being careful, since he wasn’t particularly happy before?”

“Just keep an eye on your shampoo. Apparently he’s used that one before, I wouldn’t put it past him to have invented the damn idea.”

*

Saturday is suspiciously Loki-free, but once again Tony finds him sleeping relatively peacefully. Apparently the god has given up on fitting to Earth conventions for going to sleep and waking up. He must have been reading or something, because his tablet is beside him, and he’s curled up on the floor like it’s his bed. Tony rolls his eyes.

The fact that he’d been able to lift him at all in the subway tunnel was a miracle, most likely possible due in part to the fact that Loki was half-starved and and part the pure adrenaline, so there’s no way in hell he can do it now. Instead he settles for tugging the quilt off the bed and wraps it around Loki’s shoulders, having lived with him long enough to know that he’s got a weird thing about having heavy blankets when he sleeps, even though he never gets cold. He pulls a pillow down as well to tuck under his head. It can’t be the most pleasant floor in the world given how thin the carpet is,, and Loki will probably still wake up sore, but at least he’s not _entirely_ uncomfortable.

“Stupid asshole. Next time read in bed like a normal person instead of on the floor.”

When he stands and turns to leave, he finds Bruce leaning against the doorframe with one eyebrow raised.

“He’s an idiot,” Tony says by way of explanation. “How’s science going?”

“Oh, um, it’s fine. I should be able to make do for a few days. What about him?”

He shrugs. “Better than before. I mean, he’s actually sleeping and not just faking it, so if nothing else he at least doesn’t think you’ll _immediately_ kill him. Baby steps, buddy. Baby steps.”

“Right…”

“No, seriously man, if you two ever manage to talk like normal people you’re gonna have your mind blown. He’s fucking brilliant. Like, seriously genius level, probably definitely more so than either of us. He hides it behind all the brooding and pissy attitude, but holy shit can he do some math. He’d never done anything beyond basic arithmetic before he showed up on Earth, but in two textbooks could work out some damn complicated multivariable calculus. In his head. _In under thirty seconds.”_

Aha. Now Bruce is interested.

“Is he any good with chemistry?”

Tony laughs. “Dude, he’s at least decent at almost everything. He’s like three thousand years old and change, it’s not like he’s been sitting on his ass the whole time. And yeah, he’s good at chemistry, although he tends to think about shit weirdly. Also really hates variables, don’t ever start him talking about them because he’s got serious issues with the fact that we mix letters and numbers, but he’s fucking incredible when it comes to theory.”

“He’s _how_ old? How does that work?”

Oh, right. Bruce didn’t know that. Sort of funny he got stuck on that one considering the fact that he kind of wanted to know the chemistry bit, but eh.

“Magic apples, apparently, I have no clue. Their years aren’t the same as ours, and their time doesn’t quite sync up either, so it’s kind of a general estimate. His best guess in our terms is like three thousand and seventy-two. Thor’s a couple hundred older. So… yeah. He’s good at a lot of stuff by now. I’m pretty sure blondie is holding out on us too.”

Bruce hums thoughtfully, his brow furrowed and a quizzical look on his face. “Do you think he’d work on the medicine?”

“What happened to hating him and throwing him out?”

“I don’t like him, Tony. He’s dangerous, and when I look at him I see each and every kid who died that day. But if I’m letting him stay here—for _you,_ not him—I want him at least doing some good to make up for that. Even if it’s not because he regrets it.”

“Yeah, well, I seem to remember him _offering_ to give you a hand and then you totally telling him off. Not exactly a warm welcome there.”

“I thought, um… I thought he was only doing it to get on my good side.”

He chuckles at that. “Oh, no, he totally was. Still was help, though, whatever sketchy motives he had. Gift horses and mouths, Bruce. Gift horses and mouths.”

“Any chance he’ll reconsider?”

“I’ll talk to him…”

*’*’*

Loki wakes in a cocoon of warmth, although his back is stiff and his side a little sore when he stretches. Not too bad, though, and it will subside soon enough—just like that. No more pain. It’s nice here, and his pillow is soft… He didn’t have a pillow, Loki thinks offhandedly, or a blanket before. Banner wouldn’t have bothered, as he still holds disgust toward him (rightly earned but still unfortunate), which leaves Stark.

He allows himself a small smile. Stupid, sentimental fool. Still, it’s fairly comfortable, being surrounded by heat and wrapped in the quilt in such a fashion that he can almost pretend it’s a thousand years ago when he was still young and ignorant. Not quite, but almost.

One of his knives rests under his pillow as he always keeps it, and he runs his fingers over the leather hilt before he yawns and decides that there’s no harm in sleeping a little longer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, things happened. Kind of late, but they happened. Considering I've only had four days of classes, I'm swamped with work and have multiple projects due this coming week (hence the delay), but once things settle down I should have a better idea of how often I can update. Hopefully at least weekly. The only reason this one took so long is that Loki really wanted to angst and I had to completely rewrite it four times before he'd stop being a mopey pain in the ass.
> 
> And the book he's reading at the beginning is Flatland, because of reasons. Those reasons being that I like it.


	45. Warrior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S ALIIIIIVE!
> 
> (and by 'it' I mean me)

"I am _not_ going to sit around pouring liquids into jars, you imbecile. It's been years since I've spent any extended period of time mixing potions; do you really want me to do so when I’m entirely out of practice? I'm as like to hand you poison as I am elixir. Do I look to be an apothecary to you?"

“They’re labelled,” Banner informs him ever-so-helpfully.

He sighs and shakes his head, giving up on the human race in general. “And Stark spoke so highly of your intelligence, too…”

A pause falls between them before the man speaks. “What else does he say about me?”

“Curious, are we?”

“Maybe.”

“Mmm, well, what if we were to make a deal?”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

He laughs, enjoying Banner’s discomfort. “Suspicious, are we? No doubt you think I have some scheme planned to trick you into bowing to my every whim, but I’ve no real desire for that right now. It’s simple, really, no loopholes in the wording or tricks in the setup: an answer for an answer. Do you agree to those terms?”

“I don’t know…”

“You do not have to reveal any information that could compromise the safety of you or SHIELD. Better?”

“I guess.”

Loki nods. “But whatever you _do_ say must be truth.”

Discomfort is obvious in the man’s voice when he speaks, presumably some ridiculous inner battle over morality. “Yeah, okay, I promise. Same goes for you, though.”

“But of course. I’ll speak naught but truths. You’d like to start, I would guess?”

Oh, the fool… he’ll try to outsmart him, most likely, but very few can even come close to competing with the silvertongue in word games. Loki grudgingly agrees with himself not to take advantage _too_ much.

“Uh, like I asked, I guess. What does he say about me?”

“Stark thinks highly of you,” Loki admits, “and mentions you often. Particularly when science is involved. He considers you a close friend, which I understand is a rare thing, so I would take that seriously were I you. Trust is not a common thing for him, and he’s not one to easily forgive large transgressions.”

“What about the other guy?”

He gives the man a scathing look. “I do believe it’s my turn, is it not?”

“Oh, sorry.”

“As well you should be, mortal.” Judging from the lack of response, Banner isn’t the brightest in terms of catching sarcasm. How disappointing. “Why so serious? I don’t bite. Well, that’s actually an incredible lie, but I have no intention of doing so to you at present.”

“Do you in the future?”

“So many questions, little one, and so little patience. Isn’t there a Midgardian saying about curiosity killing cats? I suppose I’ll indulge you, though, if it should ease your suspicions. I don’t plan to bite you at any point in time unless you become a danger to me. I haven’t done so to anyone in your real– no, I think I may have bitten your captain during a fight, but the memory is a bit hazy. It was self-defense, though.”

_”Biting?”_

Loki shrugs and leans against the wall. “They had me in chains, my options were limited. Besides, I think it made an impression.”

“And that’s a good thing.” It’s not really a question, but he takes it as one anyway. It’s really too fun to make Banner uncomfortable.

“Of course. If I’m to go down, I’ll not do it quietly. I don’t whimper. Now, my turn, I think?”

“I guess, yeah.”

Loki hums thoughtfully. He slides down and drums his fingers on the carpet, pretending to mull over what he should ask even though he’s decided long ago. “When you shift, what is it like?”

“Um, I don’t–”

“It doesn’t compromise anyone’s safety, so far as I know, so by our rules it’s fair. You can choose to end the exchange, of course, but you’ll not gain any other information from me… it’s up to you.”

Loki continues the beat on the floor while Banner contemplates his next move. There’s no real concern on his part that the man won’t reveal the answer, primarily because he truly has no ulterior motive. It’s simple curiosity. Not that Banner will take it that way, of course. Sure enough it takes a few moments but the man acquiesces.

“It hurts. Uh… like… like I’m too big and too small at the same time and I can’t fit into my own body, and then I can’t fill it.”

“No, no, I don’t mean physically. I mean in your mind. What is it like?”

“I thought you only got one question.”

“Technically you got two. Besides, it doesn’t count if you don’t answer the question in the first place.”

“You didn’t ask for specifics.”

“No, I asked for _everything._ Hence the broad question. Don’t play word games with the silvertongue, mortal.”

“You _didn’t._ You asked what it’s like and I told you. It’s my turn now.”

Insufferable mortal and his intelligence. Loki pulls his legs up to sit cross-legged as the man’s presence seems to shift, a slight brush of skin against fabric that tells him that he’s sunk to the same level in front of him. “Then ask your query.”

There’s no hesitation, no pause before he speaks. “What is Tony to you, besides someone to hide with?”

“You sit before an ancient god,” Loki says, leaning forward and narrowing his eyes. “You could hear the secrets of your world and universe, know the cure for a thousand diseases, learn the key to interstellar travel… yet you ask of one man. I will never understand your kind.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Yes, yes, alright…” But he’s not really sure how to answer that question, especially not without giving away things he’d never care to share with the man. Or Stark. Or even himself, really, because he doesn’t know anything for sure now. “He is one who has earned my trust.”

That’s undoubtedly true, because ever since Stark had pulled him into his life the mortal has never once truly betrayed him. Acted in a way that felt as such at the time? Most certainly. But if things ever come to a situation when he has no time to think or ask for explanation he’ll follow Stark without a second thought. It’s a disconcerting thought, really, because that sort of trust can only end in pain for one or both of them.

Beyond the trust is a friendship he doesn’t fully understand—never has anyone dared to sift through the broken shards of him at risk of being cut in the process, and imagined the true form they once held even without truly seeing it. Never has anyone tried to piece the shattered thing back together with the knowledge and acceptance of the fact that he can’t be completely whole ever again. Never has anyone paid as much attention to the cracks remaining as they do the pieces themselves, and never has anyone stayed by his side while everything falls down again.

Except for Stark.

Loki doesn’t know what to make of it, and such things he’s never understood. The thought brings with it a confusion that makes him shove it back to the dark corners of his mind again, buried under yet another pile of broken soul.

What he _does_ know is that Banner is a threat he is determined to neutralize in whatever fashion necessary.

*

Three days later he kneels on a wood floor that’s gritty with dust, more pettily frustrated than he has been in a month and swearing in Russian.

“Would you just hold still, coward? It’s your own damn fault you were stabbed. If you wish to take revenge then I have no issue with it and you’re more than welcome to do so, but at least wait until you aren’t bleeding all over the place.”

“I don’t have to listen to you just because you’re blind!”

Loki doesn’t so much as blink, and instead stares him down. “No, you have to listen because if you don’t I’ll just stab you myself.”

“You can’t do that, you’re a prissy adu—”

“I can, and I damn well will if the next words from your pathetic mouth aren’t ‘Yes, Lachlan.’ Are we clear?”

“Like fuck we’re n—”

He cuts the stupid boy off again. The knife doesn’t have a chance to glint in whatever sorry excuse for light the room they’re in no doubt has before it’s out and slashing towards the stupid creature’s side.

“Lachlan!” Banner snaps from across the room, halting the blade a quarter of an inch from cutting flesh.

Not that he wouldn’t have stopped before he’d drawn blood anyway, but a little fear is good for a child to learn from. Especially an insolent creature like this one. Apparently the actual threat of danger was enough to make a point, so Loki tucks his knife back away as smoothly as he’d brandished it and runs his fingers across the boy’s abdomen a little less carefully than before. He must be seventeen or eighteen years old or so in human terms, judging partially from his voice, but mostly due to the fact that the current two ‘warring factions’ in this godforsaken place are made up of adolescents who’ve decided education isn’t good enough for them and would rather go around hitting things.

It’s like childhood all over again.

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be wearing glov– ow!”

“Shut up, squabbling wretch,” Loki tells him irritably. “If you don’t want me to help you then leave, otherwise shut up or I’ll stitch you without anesthetic. Are we clear?”

The boy mumbles something vaguely affirmative.

“I believe the words you are looking for are ‘Yes, Lachlan.’”

“I–”

_“Yes, Lachlan.”_

“Yes, Lachlan.” is the angry response.

“Very good. Now was that so hard?”  Once more he has to find the wound, although this time at least the child lets him without too much fuss.

Well, until the needles appear and he freaks out to what is a truly pathetic degree.

“Oh for Valhalla’s sake! You’ve had a knife in your side but a hypodermic of pain relief is too frightening for you? Stop being such a weanling and move your hand out of the way unless you want to be numb there too. You should be thankful,” he tells him as he preps a syringe of local anesthetic. “If you’re out far enough for long enough, you start to run out of medical supplies quickly without any way to replenish them. When I was half your age I saw a man have an arm taken off without anything but a flame to cauterize the wound, because it had been mauled past recognition. There are some screams you never forget. A few years later I took a shot through my hip that shattered the left half of my pelvis, and it was nearly a week before the scouting party I was leading could send for help. When you’ve seen _half_ the horrors any one of your soldiers has during their first deployment, _then_ you can come to me and complain about having to accept pain relief from a blind man. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Lachlan,” is the quieter response.

“See? You can learn after all,” he says, tying off the last stitch.

“You were a soldier?”

“Mm, in a way I suppose I was. We didn’t call it that where I was from. We were warriors, born and bred, and battle was so ingrained in us that it’s taken me years to realize there’s any other way. I’m still not exceptionally fond of the other way, but nonetheless.”

“So what happened?”

“Hmm?”

“When you got hit with a bullet.”

The boy suddenly seems at once both much older and much younger, with the way his voice gets just that little bit more curious with the anticipation of a child listening to a story. It reminds Loki of himself and Thor so many centuries ago when they’d ask Odin about his past adventures.

Oh, what this poor, naïve child doesn’t know could fill a thousand books and still spill over.

Loki pauses for a moment and listens to the makeshift clinic, quickly judging the number of people waiting and Banner’s current state of engagement, then sits back on his heels. “You wish to hear stories, little one?”

“Don’t call me ‘little one,’ I’m a fucking adult.”

“Yes, yes, of course you are.” He doesn’t bother trying to hide the patronization. “Do you?”

“I’m not saying ‘yes, Lachlan’ one more fucking time.”

“You just did, and is it really necessary to insert ‘fuck’ into every sentence? I get the point.”

“You’re a fucking asshole.”

“So I’m told.”

“Okay, fine, I want to hear the story. Good?”

He sighs. “Enough, I suppose. You shouldn’t make assumptions, though.”

“What are you talking about? Since when did I make any as–”

“It was an arrow. I wasn’t hit with a bullet, I took an arrow to the hip back when I was a little younger than yourself.”

“So, what, you’re one of those forced child soldiers or some shit?”

“No, no…” Loki laughs softly. “I was leading them. I had a half-dozen men at my command and we were a couple weeks into a month-long reconnaissance mission…”  Oh, the tales of old. He’s missed them as much as he’s tried to avoid them. It’s easy to fall back into old patterns and get lost in the easier times of youth.

*

He slinks through the tangle of brambles like he’d been raised among them, brushing against thorns but never getting snagged or scratched, and makes little more than the slightest whisper of sound. The shadows welcome him into their fold as an old friend. This is where he belongs, really—in the dark corners of the forest protecting the good of Asgard. This is what he was born to do.

A lazy gust of wind carries the scent of horses on its back, and he freezes in place while he listens to gauge their position. Six pairs of quiet footsteps pause behind him so that he can hear a party of eight or nine Vanir riding along a trade route a furlong and change to the southeast, a supply transit no doubt, though he waits until they’re out of hearing distance before moving again. The moonlight streaming through the branches throws a latticework of light and shadow onto the forest floor that illuminates his way enough to pick out the next silent path.

It’s still a little warm out, considering how closely winter treads. The stronghold they’re searching for is a bit further away, but thankfully it’s not an entirely unpleasant journey—he’s spent weeks on end in the pouring rain before when even the most optimistic of men fall into a bleak silence around the fire at night. Not that they’ve been able to start fires at night here—smoke would draw too much attention from those they’re trying to avoid. Their camps have been small affairs with little more than thin blankets, because they have with them what they can carry on their backs and naught else. It’s good that this portion of Vanaheim is rife with wildlife, since it means that they need not weigh down their packs with rations, even if it does require having to spend time hunting.

The fortress they’ve been searching for is now a silhouette on the horizon. The sight brings a sigh of relief to them all, as this section of Vanaheim isn’t the easiest to travel through given the unstable terrain that has only been evened out on the main paths. If he can find a way to get a few troops of warriors close enough, taking the stronghold down would be a major step towards ending the war that’s been raging over the past year.

Loki barely hears the soft clink of metal in time to spin and let a knife loose in the direction of a Vanr who’d been hiding unnoticed behind them.

Things quickly devolve into a whirling battle between his six and the Vanir eleven. Those aren’t fantastic odds, especially given the surprise and their enemies’ greater preparation, and it takes far longer than it should to regain their footing in order to properly counter the attack. Worst is the fact that the eight of the Vanir are archers, and the æsir at his back are not armed with ranged weaponry. It’s all Loki can do to keep the enemy occupied while his men get close enough to do any real damage.

In the end, the Vanir are less practiced than he and the warriors that fight with him, and they fall one-by-one into the bloodied leaves on the forest floor. Only two remain when it happens, and only one of his has fallen, but the youngest of their party—well, youngest besides himself—doesn’t see the attack coming until it’s too late. Loki pushes him out of the way, which sends the arrow meant for the other into his hip with enough force to shear straight through the bone and leave him crashing to the ground with a half-stifled cry of pain.

The battle goes on for another three or four minutes, but he can’t do much more than grip his knife hard enough to make his knuckles turn white and try to keep his breaths under control until the last two have been slain and his men rush to his side. One of them snaps the arrow so that he can pull it out, and it’s no difficult task for him to know that the bone is in pieces. Much as it pains him to admit, the Vanir have a great deal of skill at weaponcraft—enough that a hit like this causes a large amount of damage. If anything, he’s lucky that it was his hip and not somewhere even worse. A few inches right could have killed him.

But luck or not, the wound still sends searing agony through his body. Moving is impossible to do on his own, and when the man he’d saved helps lift him Loki barely manages to hold back a shriek. There’s no other way, though, and they don’t have a healing stone to help, so he bites his tongue and suffers through in silence until they find a place nearby to set up camp.

Heimdall has no doubt seen what’s transpired. Given their proximity to their target, though, the Bifrost would draw far too much attention and cause untold damage toward Asgard’s current strategies, so Loki doesn’t bother calling out to him. They’ll have to find a way back from here without the aid.

He bandages what he can of his injuries himself and one of the more battle-worn men tries to reorder his hip enough to keep it from healing poorly. It hurts even worse than he’d expected, and leaves him biting his arm bruisingly to keep from screaming.

*

“We hid in the bushes that night,” Loki says, voice distant as he’s caught up in the memories. “It was a five-day trek through bad weather to get far enough away that we could meet up with a medic, through which I had to be half-carried as I couldn’t support myself, and another three went by before we finally made it back into somewhat friendly territory that I might be properly seen to. As incredible as our healers are, I walked with a limp for weeks afterwards. Be glad you can come here so easily. There are many who do not have such fortune.”

“So, what, I’m supposed to be inspired now or whatever shit and stop defending our turf?”

“No, I care not what you do.We are both warriors in different ways, and that cannot be changed. To tell you to cease fighting would be pointless. Once you taste blood and learn you like it, there is naught else in all the realms that can satisfy the craving for more.”

*’*’*

Bruce and Loki get back late the next few nights, but the work seems to be doing the god some good. Well, sort of. There are a few times when he ends up in a completely shitty mood and snaps at the both of them because of some stupid reason or another. It’s kind of typical Loki, though, so at least he and Bruce aren’t quite as blatantly antagonistic toward each other. Again, sort of. The asshole has passive aggression down to an art, and isn’t afraid to use it. Tony still can’t figure out what has him so mad, but hey. Crazy norse guy. Who the fuck even knows.

When Saturday rolls around Loki sleeps straight through the day, leaving him and Bruce to have dinner alone.

“So how’re things going with tall, dark, and crazy?” he asks around a forkful of instant mashed potatoes.

Bruce shrugs. “I wouldn’t know; he doesn’t talk to me except for when he has to or when he thinks he can get information.”

“Yeah, he can be like that. You’re okay with keeping him around, though? Because I would totally build you your own tower if you said yes.”

“I don’t want a tower. Tony. But I’ll _tentatively_ let him stay if you can keep him under control. Okay?”

“You’re awesome, and are _so_ getting a tower. I’ll put in training rooms for the big guy with lots of shit to smash.”

Bruce lets out a long-suffering sigh. “It’s just weird how he acts around you. He just gets really p–”

“Possessive?” He cuts in. “Yeah, I think he thinks that I’m going to ditch him for you. He can be kinda neurotic sometimes, I’ve kind of gotten used to it.”

“I was going to say protective, actually. At the clinic he always keeps people between me and him, especially when I’m frustrated about something. But when you’re around, if I act even a little stressed, he’ll move in front of you. It’s subtle, and I can’t figure out if he does it on purpose or not; I can’t read him.”

Huh. Now that he’s thinking about it, he guesses Loki does kind of do that sometimes. Again, crazy norse dude, so who the hell even knows what the guy is thinking at any given point in time, if he’s thinking at all.

Well, it’s not that Tony’s completely incapable of getting into the god’s head a bit. Bruce might not be able to read Loki, but he can to an extent. It helps that Loki relaxes a bit when Bruce isn’t around and will actually talk. About himself, that is. While he might not offer up the information unprompted, if Tony asks he’ll usually answer to some degree.

“Tony, how well do you know Loki?”

“Huh?”

“You said you’ve known each other for a year. Had that just been running into each other every once in a while, or were you, uh, purposefully meeting up?”

“Oh, yeah… he sort of lives in the tower. The other bedroom on the main floor of the penthouse.”

“He _what?”_

“Lives. In the tower.  Has been since Christmas Eve-ish. Long, kinda personal story there that he probably wouldn’t want me to tell, but it was a temporary solution that just kind of turned into a long-term thing. He’s decent company when he’s not pissed, and is a hell of a lot of help in the workshop, so…”

“And you say you’re not compromised.”

“Bruce, I’m the only one who _isn’t._ I’m the one person who’s been able to look at shit objectively instead of getting caught up on what happened in New York. Not saying that he’s perfect, or hasn’t fucked shit up, but he’s not _evil._ And he’s kind of got a soft spot for humans, if you poke at him right.” He shakes his head. “Just trust that I know what I’m doing, alright? Well, sort of. Trust that I’m at least pretending to know what I’m doing. Loki’s hard to deal with sometimes.”

“He seems to trust you, so I’m trying to take comfort in that. If he’s not faking it, then it’s actually a little surprising.”

“He’s not. We’ve been through some shit, he and I, and it’s kind of mutual, so… yeah. I’d trust him with my life.”

“If I didn’t already think you were crazy, I do now.”

Tony sighs, and pushes food around on his plate absentmindedly. “Bruce, he’s saved my life. More than once. I’ve saved his, too, and that does kind of inspire a little good faith between people.”

“What about the knives to your throat?”

“I mean, yeah, he’s scary. Of course he is, he’s a god who was raised to think that blood is the answer to all his problems, but so is Thor. He’s hurt me before, and pretty badly—not in a million years will I ever claim he’s not dangerous—but at this point I don’t think he actually wants to do anything to me so I trust him.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, man. Yeah, he’s a fucked-up mess, but he’s a friend. And besides, have you _seen_ me? He’s not exactly the only whackjob here.”

“You’re not a whackjob.”

“Um, yeah, I sort of am. And a proud one, at that, so don’t tell me what I can’t be,” Tony tells him with a wink.

“Alright, fine, you’re stupid.”

“Bruce, I’m a better person with him around. That sounds really concerning, I guess, given that he’s a wanted supervillain, but he’s pretty much the only one who’s seen the shit I’ve seen and who I can talk to about it. I’ve been a hell of a lot more stable since he moved in.”

“Nevermind, you _are_ a whackjob.”

*

 _“Ow!_ Loki, what the _fuck?”_

“You hesitate; in battle, that would get you killed. Now _hit me,_ fool!”

Tony takes a swing, only to meet air and nearly fall off-balance. “I’m sorry for feeling weird about hurting a blind guy!”

“It’s hardly like we’ve never sparred before, idiot mortal, and besides—you’re far too weak to actually injure me. It’s like getting punched by a butterfly, I swear to the Norns…”

“Okay, that’s it, asshole, you’re going the fuck down.”

Loki just cackles and sidesteps his next attack with practiced ease.

“How the hell do you even do that?”

The god rolls his eyes and knocks his feet out from under him with a sweeping kick. “Same as I’ve told you a thousand times before—you’re pathetically predictable. The fact that my hearing is far more sensitive than yours doesn’t hurt, either—I can gauge your foot placement with a bit of focus, you almost always hit with your dominant hand, and I know your range. Don’t feel too bad, most children your age are only slightly ahead of you.”

“Ass!”

Loki sniggers and spins around to land a light blow to his back. Well, light for the Asgardian, considering it sends Tony stumbling forward and he nearly lands on his face.

“Are you ever going to actually teach me, or do you just get off on beating me into a bloody pulp?”

“I _am_ teaching you; it’s not my fault you refuse to learn.”

“And what the hell are you ‘teaching’ me this time? What a broken nose feels like? Come on, show me more moves like when you did the chokeholds and shit. That was fun.”

“Stark, I could teach you every trick I know, but they would do you no good at all as you are. You must learn to sharpen your instincts first, to respond before you plan. The key to fighting is that you must not rely on thought; you must rely on your body’s memory of action and battle in response to your opponent. Come, again. This time slow down to half-pace and just focus on moving reflexively.”

It’s at least thirty minutes of slow-motion sparring before Loki is convinced he’s ready to quicken the pace back to normal. As it so happens, it’s apparently still not enough, seeing as Tony ends up face-down in the dirt a few yards away. Bruce appears just as he manages to push himself back up off the ground and is staring forlornly at the grass stains on his jeans.

“Uh… Tony?”

“Relax, man,” he tells him, wincing when a sharp pain shoots up his side, “just screwing around. Well, if you count murder as screwing around.”

Loki brushes nonexistent dust off his shirt. “This is hardly homicide; I’m remarkably out-of-shape.”

“He’s remarkably out of shape,” Tony mimics to Bruce with a roll of his eyes. “That’s why I’m getting beaten to a pulp.”

“I see.”

“Yeah, story of m–”

“Stark, stop discussing things of no import and try again. You’ll get nowhere by standing around making small talk,” the god reprimands.

“Wait, is he _training_ you?”

“I’m not entirely sure. Hey, Loki, are you training me?”

“Not right now I’m not, when your focus has strayed elsewhere. I have been _trying_ to, with little success, as you refuse to learn. Come, again.”

He huffs. “Well, apparently that’s a yes. Sorry, Bruce, Yoda calls.”

“That’s _Master_ Yoda to you,” Loki retorts as he backs up further and settles into an offensive stance. _“Again.”_

He takes a moment to grab a sip of water out of his bottle and get into position before he announces he’s ready, and things quickly descend into a game of aggression and defense while Bruce looks on in confusion. Tony’s not stupid enough to think that Loki’s ever used full force against him, but he still takes a good beating every time they face off, especially on the times that the god misjudges his location and doesn’t pull his strength enough in time. Which happens.

More than once, he’s pulled up the footage of their sparring after the fact—partially out of curiosity and partially to figure out where the hell he’s going wrong so that he can save his sorry ass the next time—so he knows what they look like when they fight. It’s actually quite the spectacle, although if he ever managed to set his ego aside for long enough to say it he’d admit that the main reason for that is Loki. The guy makes hand-to-hand combat look like an effortless dance in a way that even Thor for all his experience can’t match. Out of all the team’s distinct and refined styles, Loki’s is by far the most… well, beautiful is the best word he can come up with for it. Tony would kill to see the god fight sighted again, because _that_ would be incredible. Tasha would swoon.

Bony knuckles catch him across the jaw and he yelps, stumbling backwards, as Loki sighs.

“Stark. Wherever your mind has wandered away to, would you please call it back? At least _try_ to give me a challenge. I’m going to be as old as _you_ at this rate.”

“Excuse me? I’m pretty sure five minutes ago I was a baby to you.”

“Mm, well, technically, if you are to view things in a relative manner, you’re around fifteen years my elder. Or a few thousand, in my terms. You’re a senior citizen, Stark.”

“Yeah? Well, you’re an asshole.”

“For shame, old man, there are young folk in the room,” the god chides. “Whatever would your mother think?”

“She wouldn’t, she’s dead. Did you really have to put your back into that one? I mean, fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.”

Loki pauses, and cocks his head. “Your mother died?”

What is it with Norse deities picking the worst topics to talk about? Seriously. “Uh, yeah, when I was seventeen. She and my dad both. Car crash.”

The god’s expression softens. “You have my apologies.”

“Not your fault, as far as I know. Besides, shit happens. we all die eventually.”

“The curse of mortality.”

“Well arent you just the lucky one, Prancer.”

“Do you not fear it? The death that will come to you so quickly no matter how valiantly you fight against it?”

“What about you, aren’t you scared of living for so long? I’d go crazy if I were as old as you or Thor; I think that’d be way more of a curse than being limited to a few more decades.”

“Different mentalities, I suppose…” Loki sighs, his expression troubled. “Your kind are so fragile. You have no idea how easy it would be to break you by mistake.”

“Well, on the plus side, you’ve only got a couple more years of me irritating the living fuck out of you, so think on the bright side!”

Loki’s eyes narrow. “Don’t say that.”

“What? It’s true.”

The god hisses in frustration and turns away.

“Aw, Donder, are you actually going to _miss_ me?”

“Hardly. You’re an insignificant insect,” Loki says, although his tone is far from convincing, then snickers. “And you fight like one.”

“Hey–!”

“‘Tis true, my halfling student. You are weak as a new butterfly beating its wings helplessly against an anvil.”

“I am _not_ short, and at least I’m not stuck hauling Santa’s fat ass around on Christmas Eve, hornhead.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, sorry, that’s right—you’re not a reindeer, huh? You said something about a cow? Moo.”

The next thing Tony knows, there are a few hundred pounds of annoyed chaos god lunging toward him. It’s only with a great deal of effort (and even more luck) that he manages to duck to the left and use Loki’s momentum against him, pinning him to the ground with a knee to his spine and an arm twisted behind his back.

“Oh, so old dogs _can_ learn new tricks!” Loki comments. “I was starting to worry… but nonetheless, I’m still stronger.” He bucks Tony off easily and catches him in a loose chokehold.

“Cheater.”

Loki laughs brightly. “Always.”

 


	46. Confession

Saturday feels like a good day for Harry Potter, so that evening Tony kicks back on the creaky sofa with a bag of mostly-crushed pretzels he found in the cabinet and turns on Chamber of Secrets. Loki gets back before Bruce that day (apparently he’s not particularly fond of helping clean up, not that Tony can blame him), and it’s not long before he’s paused in the doorway listening.

“Dude, there’s room on the couch for you too, in case you’ve forgotten. Stop hovering over my shoulder; it’s freaking me out.”

After a moment, Loki climbs over the back of the seat and drops onto the cushions beside him.

“How’s life?”

The god makes a noncommittal sound, and tosses his glasses on the scratched-up coffee table.

“Long day?”

“I hate humanity,” he replies scathingly. “The entire species is made up of morons who have little better to do than pester me.”

“Ooh, ouch. That one’s going to leave a mark.”

Loki shoves him and scowls. “You only serve to prove my point, mortal.”

“Yeah, yeah, Salazar. I’m so _terribly_  sorry if I offended you.”

“I am _not_ a Slytherin, you impossible fool!” he retorts.

“Are you kidding me? You’re the most Slytherin Slytherin that ever slithered in!”

“Hardly. I’m quite obviously a Ravenclaw, and there’s no doubt you’re Gryffindor.”

“Fuck that, you’re Slytherin and _I’m_ Ravenclaw.”

“How in the _Norns_ am I a Slytherin?”

“Um, power-hungry, cunning, sneaky little bastard who wears green and black and is apparently the _literal_ trickster god? I mean, come on! You may as well have invented the damn house!”

“Slytherin is all about traditionalism and fraternity; I hardly care for either. Besides, Hogwarts students are sorted based off of the qualities that they admire in addition to their personal preference, which places me squarely into Ravenclaw with perhaps a hint of Gryffindor. I prize wit, intelligence, and individuality above all else, after all.”

“Right, gonna come back to the part where you think you’re red and gold later, but how the hell do you sort _me_ into Gryffindor? I mean, have you met me? Remember the whole not-a-hero thing?”

“But you wish you were, to some extent, and you have the bravery and self-righteousness for it. You want the attention, the glory, the admiration… You’re Gryffindor through and through.”

“Nah, still not seeing it. Steve’s more the guy for that house.”

“Hardly. He is entirely Hufflepuff.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Not at all. If you’d stop the hero-worship for five seconds, you’d see it too.”

“I do _not_ have any hero-worship for that asshole!”

“Oh yes you do.”

“Do not!”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much…”

“Can we at least agree that Widow is a Slytherin?”

Loki snorts. “What are we doing, sorting the entire Avengers team?”

“Sure,” Tony says with a shrug, “why the hell not?”

“Alright, then I agree on Miss Romanoff’s count. Her pet hawk is either Hufflepuff or Slytherin as well.”

“Nah, man, not Slytherin. He might be a spy, but he’s more Gryffindor-or-Hufflepuff territory.”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” Loki acquiesces with a hum. “Fury is a Slytherin, though. No doubt.”

“Okay, _that_ time you understood what the hell that house is. He definitely is. And Thor’s a Gryffindor without question.”

“He even has the lion’s mane. He’s a far different sort of Gryffindor than you, though. You embody entirely different facets of the house.”

“I still don’t think I belong in his house, but how the hell do you think _you_ do? No offense.”

Loki shrugs. “You’re either Gryffindor or Slytherin, but I could be Gryffindor, too, I suppose. Gryffindor is fire, after all, and that’s rather my element. I was raised to believe in honor and bravery, and I crave glory in the same way you or any other Gryffindor does.”

“Sorry, man, say what you want but you’ll always be a Slytherin.”

The god sticks his tongue out at him. “Shut up, I like this part.”

Tony just rolls his eyes and loops an arm around Loki’s shoulders when the god settles back against him. The sky changes slowly while they watch the movie, passing from blue through blazing pinks, oranges, and yellows back to a deep blue that is far darker than anything visible in the Manhattan night. He’s comfortable enough by the time it gets dark that he doesn’t particularly want to get up, so the room’s only source of light is the flickering of the TV as Hermione’s attempt at a polyjuice potion goes slightly wrong.

Loki snickers. “Honestly, that is _such_ a novice mistake.”

“That’s why it’s only the second movie, smartass. She learns to watch out for cat hair.”

“Yes, I know; I read the books.”

After that he starts watching Loki’s expressions; he’s not really sure why, but it’s entertaining to see the Asgardian’s reactions to the plot. For a time, Tony wonders how similar the antics Loki and Thor got up to back when they were kids were to Harry and the gang’s, then if Asgard is anything like Hogwarts. All things considered, a few of the mythical creatures have come up in stories he’s heard from one or both of the brothers before.

Tony considers asking, but then Loki shifts closer and he decides it’s not worth the chance of running into a sensitive topic (as fifty percent of anything Asgard-related seems to be) and ruining the night. Instead he leans his head against the god’s and turns his attention back to the movie just as Harry is discovering all the dark secrets of Tom Riddle’s journal.

*’*’*

Showers, in Loki’s personal opinion, are rather odd things. There’s no such thing on Asgard or the other realms, and the closest thing he’s ever thought to compare them to is bathing in waterfalls. He’s far more used to baths than this oddity, though he will admit that at times they’re nice. Stark often complains about the fact that their water heater is unreliable at best, but the gentle cascade of cool water is relaxing if a bit strange.

It always feels like it takes an eternity to wash off the stench of illness and blood after working in the makeshift infirmary. Perhaps it’s not so much the sickness itself as it is the glaring reminder of these creature’s futilely short lives; this is the longest he’s ever spent on Midgard without reprieve, and every day seems to drive home the point further that mortality is a terrifying curse endured on the realm. How only one of Yggdrasil’s upright races ended up with such short lifespans is beyond him.

Loki stands in the stream for a long time, eyes closed in some subconscious fantasy of having sight when he reopens them, just clearing the thoughts from his head until his mind is clear of near any activity at all. All that exists for those stretching minutes is the drumbeat of water on ceramic, quiet hiss of the showerhead, and drifting memories of gold and stone. It’s almost peaceful—or as peaceful as he’s been able to be since Thor’s attempted coronation, anyway. That was the start of a downhill descent he deeply regrets.

He finally climbs out around three thirty in the morning—yes, his circadian rhythm is still as unruly as ever, so he’s stayed up half the night reading—and wraps himself in one of the somewhat scratchy towels Banner owns.  His hair drips on the cracked linoleum floor, but he’s tired and doesn’t care enough to wipe it up.

Ever since he went into hiding he’s stopped worrying about his appearance quite so much. That’s not to say he isn’t still well-groomed, but seeing as he’s not been out of the tower much until now, there’s not been any real need to go overboard. Especially now, with his hair short, it’s satisfactory enough to towel it dry and brush the longer locks behind his ear (although they’ll inevitably curl that way if he leaves it too long). He dresses in some of the pyjamas he’d found out shopping, and is passing by Stark’s room on the way to his own when he hears it.

Over the past year he’s learned the telltale whine that tells him the mortal is caught up in a nightmare, in much the same way that Stark has learned Loki’s own. They’ve developed a sort of camaraderie when it comes to the horrors that plague them both in their sleep, each finding an unspoken comfort in that they’re not alone in the fact that sleep often brings with it memories they’d rather forget.

He swings the door open, wincing at the squeak of the top rusted hinge.

“Stark?” he calls quietly. “Stark, wake up…”

The mortal inhales sharply and pulls his pillow closer, words half-forming on his lips as he dreams. “nonono… steve, stop ‘m ‘fore he destroys everything; don’ let loki– n-no-!”

Loki freezes in his tracks, then backs away slowly as the man continues to speak of him in such a manner. To speak of him not as a friend, or even an acquaintance, but as evil monster and Destroyer of Worlds. Half of him wants—no, _needs_ to leave, to get out and as far away as possible, but all the same he cannot leave Stark to the imprisoning fear.

Why his feet lead him where they do he’s not entirely sure, but Loki finds himself with a hand on Banner’s shoulder.

“Banner.”

The man startles awake, panting and staring at him wild-eyed. Loki backpedals quickly and raises his hands in as nonthreatening a manner as possible.

“I mean no harm. Be at peace.”

Once Banner’s caught his breath, he narrows his eyes slightly as if to read Loki’s intentions. “What is it?” he asks, voice still thick with sleep.

“I’m afraid Stark is sleeping rather unpeacefully. It may be in your best interest to wake him if you care for decent company tomorrow.”

“Thought he told me you usually did that…”

Loki scowls, angry at more than just Stark or Banner right now. “I’m not certain he’d react well to being roused by the source of his nightmares.” With that he storms out of the room, the bathrobe he’d donned over his pyjamas flaring out behind him as he silently curses this realm and the one that birthed him.

*’*’*

Tony wakes with a start, breathless, to Bruce’s worried expression above him.

“Tony? Are you alright?”

He swallows in an attempt to remedy how dry his mouth feels and nods half-heartedly. Images of the battle and tales spun in his mind still flit at the edges of his vision, threatening to send him into a panic if he thinks too hard on them. Bruce waits patiently as he slowly manages to calm down.

“You didn’t want to wake up.”

“No,” Tony laughs humorlessly, “my brain doesn’t like to make my life any easier.”

“I’ve been there. Maybe not in the same way, but having gamma radiation take over your body doesn’t exactly leave your head in the best state.”

“I feel you, man.”

“Things will get better. Maybe not back to the way they were, but they’ll get easier to handle over time.”

He sighs. “Don’t lie to me, Bruce; it’s been over two years and nothing’s changed. I got fucked over by life, end of story.”

“Try to have at least a little optimism.”

“What for? All it does is get your hopes up and then let you down.”

The bed squeaks when Bruce sits beside him. “Was it New York?”

“What, the dream?” Tony verifies. “Yeah, sorta. Just lots of chaos though, really. Not all that different than usual.”

“You’re a crap liar. Loki was in it, right?”

He grimaces. “Yeah. Not the nice version, though.”

“Didn’t sound like it, no.”

“But you still lived with him.”

“I’m pretty sure I’m certifiably insane, haven’t you realized that by now?”

“Try to get some sleep. If you clear your mind first, it might help.”

Tony shakes his head and climbs out of bed, bleary-eyed and struggling to stay awake so as to avoid the dreams. “I’m not good at that whole meditation crap. I’m gonna grab a drink or something…”

“Tony…”

“Don’t ‘Tony’ me, I’m not a five-year-old.” He scowls bitterly and stumbles out of the room, only to nearly run head-first into Loki.

The god is leaning against the wall about halfway down the hall, arms crossed over his chest and brows drawn together. His deep blue robe has slipped off one shoulder and his hair is out-of-place like it gets when he’s been running fingers through it. At the sound of footsteps he tenses and tries to leave, but Tony catches his arm.

“Loki–”

“Don’t, Stark,” he says shortly, cutting Tony off. “I’m a cruel person, and not one you should trust. Let go of me.”

To be entirely honest, seeing Loki right now freaks him out. He still hears the sadistic laugh that echoed in his dreams like it’s real. It takes a great deal of conscious thought to push back the fear and anxiety that well up in his chest, but the look on the god’s face causes guilt to overpower the need to get away. All things considered, Loki as he is now isn’t evil. Screwed up, yes, but not evil.

And apparently heard at least part of the dream, because he seems to be pretty upset.

Abandoning the thought of coffee or whatever he had planned to search for in the kitchen as exhaustion creeps back into his awareness, Tony sighs and tugs on Loki’s arm to get him to follow. Bruce sends him a questioning glance when they pass each other in the hall, which he ignores.

The bed squeaks when Tony drops down onto it. He pulls the quilts back, shifts to the far side, and pats the mattress beside him.

“I’m too tired to talk about shit right now. C’mere.”

Loki hesitates, so he grabs his arm and pulls gently until the god relents and curls up beside him. With most people this would probably be weird, but considering the fact that the first quality time the pair of them ever spent together was a week or so in bed while Loki suffered through withdrawals, and that Loki is really pretty tactile once his walls are pulled down, it’s really not the craziest thing that’s happened. Tony drapes an arm over the god’s waist and holds him close. As exhausted as he is, and as heavy as his eyes are, his heart is still pounding too hard to be able to sleep. He shuts his eyes and tries to focus on the rise and fall of Loki’s chest as the god sinks into slumber.

Tony doesn’t really get much rest that night. It’s hard to say if he ever drifted off, but he definitely didn’t stay unconscious for more than a few moments at a time. Needless to say, when he slips out of the room early the next morning (carefully so as to avoid waking Loki), he’s absolutely exhausted.

Well, more than before. He already was. Nightmares tend to do that.

*

“Loki,” Tony calls.

Loki turns away from the man he’s with and wipes crimson-stained hands on an old rag that had been laying nearby. His movements may be calm, but there’s tension in his shoulders that hasn’t left since last night.

“I wasn’t aware you knew someone else with a car.”

He shrugs. “I walked. C’mon, we need to talk.”

“I’m fairly certain that Banner has reminded you on more than one occasion that it’s not safe to walk alone through much of the area that separates the infirmary and our current living arrangements. Now leave me alone; I have work to do.”

“I’m not some teenage chick out after dark, Loki, I can take care of myself. Now stop being obstinate and come on.”

“There is nothing that needs to be discussed,” Loki says as he tucks the bloody cloth into his back pocket.

“Yes, there is, and you know it.”

“I really don’t think so.”

_“Loki.”_

The god grimaces. “Stark, I heard enough. This conversation is far from necessary.”

“Not true,” Tony says, grabbing his hand and wrapping it around his upper arm. “Just come for the fucking walk with me.”

He’d thought that maybe seeing Loki here, being all medical and helping and shit, would help override the images in his mind. It probably would have, was it not for the quite literal blood on his hands. Now Tony kind of just wants to get outside. Thankfully the god follows, if a bit reluctantly.

“St–”

“Nope. I talk first. I’m the one who hiked across half of fucking Russia, so I get to talk first.”

“I don’t want your sugar-coating, Stark. I’m not some fragile doll.”

“Okay, fine, look. Sometimes? Sometimes you freak me the fuck out. You kind of blew up New York, which also happened to coincide and cause one of the worst days of my life, and that screws up a guy’s head. Alright? So, yeah, sometimes you show up in my nightmares as a baddie. That doesn’t mean I think you’re some evil monster, because I don’t.”

“Some portion of your mind does.”

He runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s like I’ve said to Bruce—I have to separate _you_ from _crazy you._ As in the guy who tried to take over Manhattan under duress is different from the Loki I know. You just happen to have the same face.”

“We’re the same person.”

“But you’re _not._ I’m by no means under the illusion that you’re not completely bonkers, but you’re not _evil._ So, yeah, sometimes I see your face and think of him, but I know you’re not the same guy.”

“I don’t entirely follow.”

“For a smart guy, you’re pretty stupid.”

Loki just sighs.

“So what have you been up to with Bruce?” Tony asks, having decided that a change of topic wouldn’t be amiss.

“Injuries, mostly; apparently my bedside manner is lacking and he’s decided I’m best suited to stitching moronic youth back together. Besides, I’m more practiced at dealing with knife and projectile wounds than I am prescribing Midgardian medicines. Or any medicines, for that matter.”

“People get shot a lot around here? Thought we were kind of in the middle of nowhere.”

“You’d be surprised. It’s a city, after all, and its slow death only means there is little legal enforcement if any at all. It’s not always the safest place to be.”

“Sounds like Detroit. I mean, have you _seen_ how people drive up there? Don’t answer that, I know you haven’t, but still. Shit’s crazy. Used to be the automotive capital of the world; now it’s got some of the highest crime rates in the US.”

“Such is the way of Yggdrasil, I suppose… nothing remains the same. Change is inevitable.”

“And you’re just all about change, aren’t you?”

“For better or for worse.” Loki shrugs. His tone is still dull, like he’s half a world away.

“Loki…”

“Don’t act like y-”

Tony’s pushed roughly to the left without any warning, and the sidewalk rushes up to meet him faster than he’d thought possible. It’s only the past few years training for superhero shit that keep him from whacking his head on the pavement, and even with it he rolls rather poorly. By the time he manages to regain his bearings and straighten his vision, he looks up to find Loki clutching his side and growling at some guy with a gun and his four lackeys.

“How _dare_ you attack a son of—” Loki closes his eyes and takes a breath to calm himself, presumably before he tears everyone’s throats out, then snarls “What do you want?” in Russian.

Now, Tony’s been reading up on his Russian, but language is Loki’s forte and not his. The ensuing conversation (or argument, more like) is too fast for him to understand beyond snatches of words here and there. There’s something about doctors and sides, and what the hell did Loki do? Medical malpractice? Is the gun waving really necessary?

The apparent leader of the pack says something and laughs, and Loki takes a slight step back in what seems like discomfort. It only makes the guy’s smile widen.

Tony would get up, except the gun keeps getting pointed back his way. Well, that and the fact that he’s trained enough with Loki to know that he’s not backing out of this. Best not to get in the way of what’s coming.

“Ты—”

The man doesn’t get a chance to finish, because at that moment Loki lunges forward and everything descends into chaos. A shot goes off, echoing loudly, but hits brick across the street. There’s a crack that’s nearly as loud as Loki’s foot comes in contact with one of the men’s shins and, okay, there’s no questioning whether it’s broken or not. Well fuck.

Five armed gang-looking guys taking two random people on the street by surprise might normally be unfavorable odds, but whatever they’re so pissed about, they chose the wrong two to go after. Once he’s gotten an idea of where Loki’s going, Tony scrambles to his feet and lets his knife fall from its place on his arm into his hand. He’s on Douchebag #3 in seconds while Loki takes on #2 and #5, ducking and weaving out of the way until he can land a solid blow on the back of the skull. The guy drops like a sack of moldy potatoes. Tony grabs the dropped gun just in time to spin and take a shot at #4, who’d almost managed to sneak up on Loki. The bullet catches the guy in the thigh and gives Loki enough time to sidestep and bash #2’s and #4’s heads together a bit harder than strictly necessary.

“Loki, what the _fuck!?”_ Tony exclaims once both of them have slumped to the ground unconscious.

“What? They would have tried to crawl to a gun or something otherwise.”

“No, not that part, I mean _why the fuck were they shooting at us in the first place?”_

“Oh, that,” the god says with a grimace. When he pulls his hand away from his side, it comes back bloody. “It would seem I unwittingly chose a side in some childish dispute when I offered medical aid to a member of the opposing group. Honestly, do these fools have no concept of a warrior code? A medical facility which has clearly made itself neutral should be treated as such under the knowledge that one’s own self may be the next to need it. A pity, really, considering that at least one of them will die and two more will be cripples at best.”

“By die, you mean…”

“Your shot hit an artery; I can smell the blood from here. He’ll not survive. Come, before anyone else appears.”

*’*’*

The mortal seems distracted as they walk home, which Loki supposes is most likely due to the knowledge that he killed. Honestly, though. It’s not as if the despicable fool didn’t have it coming when he decided it would be a good idea to attack a god. Were it not for Stark’s presence and the contents of his most recent nightmares, Loki would have ensured they all met their end. It would have been safer that way, and now there’s a good chance the mortal will be marked a target as well. Idiot. He should have stayed on the ground and let Loki deal with the five himself.

The first shot—the one he’d pushed Stark out of the way of—had grazed his side, and the hand he’s been holding over the wound is sticky with blood. Loki pulls the old rag from his pocket, folds it over to one of the more clean sections, and uses that to stop the bleeding in a slightly more effective manner. He scowls at the sting of it, and tries to remember where the sewing kit is at Banner’s apartment.

Stark scoffs at him once they’re sitting in the living room while he cleans out the wound and starts to sew it closed.

“You’re way too nonchalant about getting shot while you’re out taking a walk, Dasher.”

“I’ve given up hope on understanding mortals. It’s a shallow wound; I see no reason to get flustered about it.”

“Look, thanks for quite literally taking the bullet for me even after I was kind of an asshole. Accidentally. I mean, technically it’s your fault anyone was shooting to begin with, but still. You know what I mean.”

He shrugs. “As you said, it was my own fault. Are you injured at all?”

“Woah, woah, don’t point that needle at me! I don’t need you poking holes in my gorgeous face! Seriously, though, I’m fine. Couple bruises, but nothing serious.”

Loki finishes off his stitches and ties the thread. “You should be more careful in the future. No doubt one of those left alive will pass on the word that you’re involved, and you could become a target for revenge. I assume you don’t have any of your suits here?”

“Nope. Trying to lay low, remember? Kind of hard to smuggle something like that into Russia without anyone noticing. Specifically SHIELD, since they’ll be looking out for shit like that now.”

“I’ll have to train you more in knife work, then. Perhaps a bit of ranged-weapon defense as well, and escape from bindings? Largely you’ll have to improve your awareness, though, because it’s truly pitiful.”

“Hey!”

“There’s no use sugar-coating your abilities, Stark. Better by far to accept your shortcomings than ignore them and get killed.”

“Okay, okay. Fine. Now will you wash the fucking blood off your hands? Because that’s really disconcerting.”

He rolls his eyes, but finds his way to the kitchen sink anyway to clean up.

When he returns to the living room Stark is on his tablet, his fingers drumming a hollow beat on the glass while he works. Loki sits beside him with his own and pulls up some of the project files for the space-worthy version of the suit the mortal has been working on the design for, thinking to give input on how to better equip them for certain realms’ climates, but quickly casts them aside in favor of studying the arc reactor plans. There _must_ be a way to rewire things in such a fashion that the energy will cease to constantly war with his body’s own, because as things stand it’s often too distracting and painful to focus on much else.

He runs his fingers over the angles and curves of the design, pulling the reactor apart on the tactile screen and scrolling through the near-endless amounts of test data Stark has amassed over the past few years.

The mortal, as he so often does, gets irritated with Loki running his fingers over what appears to be a blank screen and leans over to turn on the visuals for his own benefit. It’s not long after that they end up deep in conversation about the benefits and issues of using a different isotope of vibranium in the reactor than they currently are.

Loki rubs the version in his chest absentmindedly. “How difficult is it to synthesise?”

“Well, the first time I tried, I had to smash holes in my house to build a miniature particle accelerator, and kind of sliced through a bunch of shit too in the process. It’s not too bad to do in small quantities with the arc version now that I know how, but the isotope you’re thinking of I haven’t been able to get yet. At least nothing stable. For that you’d have to get some from Wakanda, but they’re pretty protective of the stuff.”

“Wakanda?”

“African nation between Ethiopia, Kenya, and Narobia. Meteor hit there centuries ago and now they’ve got the biggest deposit of vibranium in the world, but they’re not fond of sharing. Religious stuff, mainly. Plus they’re damn isolated and don’t like tourists, so it’s hard to go say hi.”

“I see.” Loki hums thoughtfully. “If only I could get my hands on a bit of uru… it would solve the backscatter issue quite effectively, but I don’t have access to the tools necessary to handle it properly. Or any way to acquire any, for that matter, given our current situation.”

“What would you need?”

“A dying star, for one, and something to barter with.”

“What do you guys use, like, gold?”

He can’t help but laugh. “Oh, you fool… uru is worth far more than gold could pay for. I have things, on Asgard, but nothing here. Wakandan vibranium would be a better solution for the time being, and much simpler to acquire safely.”

“You’ll still have the backscatter that way.”

“Backscatter, yes; slow and painful death, probably less likely. That sounds preferable for now. Fancy a trip?”

“Yeah, sure, because running off to a secluded African nation at a moment’s notice with faked passports is so easy when you’re on the run from SHIELD.”

Loki scowls and shifts the diagrams again to examine the wiring. “I’d much appreciate some sort of damper, at least, if we can’t find a decent way to repurpose the reflected energy. There’s a quite frankly ridiculous amount of surplus that’s being wasted instead of recycled.”

“Might be able to work something out, just give me a few days to think it over. It’s a little tricky to get materials right now, so I’d have to either have Pepper ship things out to Bruce as if it’s just a normal supply thing—although she’s not supposed to know where he is—or else have things shuffled around enough that SHIELD loses track of them.”

“My thanks.”

“No problem.” Stark ruffles his hair in a most undignified manner, but it feels nice and no one else is around, so he leans into it while he brushes the arc reactor plans aside and pulls up the other designs again.

“Now, about your suit. If you plan to just fly around in deep-space aimlessly this shouldn’t be terribly awful, but if you ever plan to near other realms like Muspelheim or Jötunheim, you’ll need to improve your insulation and the durability of the gold-titanium alloy…”

A finger jabs him sharply in the arm. “How the _hell_ do you have the plans for that suit? You’re not supposed to be able to see those!”

Loki sits back slightly, confused by the harsh tone. “Jarvis asked me to look at them. I’m not hacking your files or anything. I did say I wouldn’t, if you’ll recall.”

“Fucking– Jarvis! The fuck is this?”

“I thought Mister Odinson might have valuable insight, seeing as he has travelled a bit more than you, sir.” Jarvis pipes up from Stark’s tablet.

“I am _not_ an Odinson,” Loki hisses, “and if you call me that again I’ll corrupt your core files.”

“Laufeyson, then?”

He growls. _“I killed Laufey.”_

“What would you have me call you?”

Loki opens his mouth to speak, and hesitates. He has no family, and wants no ties to others. He is no Friggason; Askrson would be a lie now that he is cut off from Yggdrasil… He is Loki. He belongs to no one.

He tells Jarvis as much, his voice as bitter as if he’d eaten a handful of Álfheim’s poison berries.

“Seriously, Jarvis, why the _hell_ are you sharing my private files? You’re _my_ AI, you’re supposed to follow my damn commands when I tell you to keep things secure.”

“You did give me permission to request Loki’s help if I thought it appropriate, sir. I thought it appropriate.”

“What’s the matter, Stark,” he demands, “do you not trust me with such things?”

“No, I do! I just–”

“Then why keep it a secret, hmm? What are you hiding? You’ve shared the rest of your suit designs with me, so far as Jarvis has made me aware, so what’s so special about this one? It’s because you’ve finally realized, isn’t it? That I’m the monster you fear so terribly? That I’m the one who can and will kill you in your sleep simply for the _fun_ of it!” Loki can’t help but let out an off-balanced laugh as the familiar chaos wells up in his chest, snaking through his veins as his anger rises until his very bones ache with it. He used to think everyone felt like this sometimes, like all the madness of the realms is swaddling them and warping their vision and gravity itself; it wasn’t until he was over three centuries old that he discovered he was the only one.

“What the– no! Stop making this all about you, you asshole, not everything is! The world doesn’t fucking revolve around you, whether you’re a god or not! So you’ve got a sob story, boo hoo, don’t we all?”

“You dare to p–”

“Look, sometimes I like to have personal projects, okay? You’re not the only one here who’s fucked beyond repair, you know; I’m a fucking train wreck. You want to know why I didn’t tell you about the deep space armor? Because it’s the final proof I’m losing it. I’ve been building it and rebuilding it ever since New York, because I’m so damn terrified of what’s out there that I can’t stop. That’s my pathetically futile attempt to prove that I’m more powerful than the Void. That I’m not fucking mortal. That suit is me hiding from reality, okay? It’s a fucking unhealthy obsession!”

“And do you not think I cope in dangerous ways as well? You _know_ my secrets. You know all the terrible things I have and continue to do—you are the _only one_ I’ve let see the truth—but you would try to hide everything from me?”

“Do you think it’s easy for me? You’ve seen my fucking nightmares, I’ve been trying to hide those for years!”

“Do you think it’s easy for _me?_ You’ve not judged me and I’ve not judged you, so _stop lying to me!”_ His blood feels like it could boil right out of his veins.

Loki raises a hand to strike the insolent fool but freezes in place, because Stark grabs him by the collar and kisses him.

 

 


	47. Fire

Loki finds his body locked in place, with ice freezing in his chest even while his blood still sears. The sheer force of the dichotomy makes him shudder. It only takes half a moment to pull himself together—although it feels like hours could have passed—and he shoves the man back roughly. His breaths come heavy and painful as his heart pounds behind the reactor’s hollow ache and he stares wild-eyed in Stark’s direction.

What just–? How–?  _No._

The anger doesn’t leave. The flames lick up like a grease fire onto which water has been poured, the influx of emotion and surge of terror only bewildering him and bringing the chaos to a peak.

This shouldn’t be happening.

How _dare_ the mortal–

“Loki,” Stark begins, but he cuts him off by finishing the motion he’d started earlier and sending the man reeling.

He escapes to his bedroom as quickly as possible, although the movement makes him grimace as it tugs at his stitches, and slams the door behind him.

Loki doesn’t know what to do; the action was too unexpected to have prepared for, and sends his mind into overdrive as he tries to cope. To process what’s happened. He needs more space than the cramped room can provide but doesn’t want to leave, either, because to do so would mean passing by the man again. The realization only serves to make him feel trapped, which in turn increases the stress until it’s all he can do not to scream.

Understanding people has always been both his strongest point and his weakest, and now he can’t make sense out of the storm in his thoughts. He wants to hide, to escape from everything—Stark, this realm, and time itself.

*.*.*

“Hey Bruce?”

The man jumps, turning toward the bed he’s sprawled out on. “Holy crap! How long have you been there?”

He shrugs. “Couple minutes?”

“Is there a reason you’re in my room at two in the morning? Because I’m pretty sure last time I checked, this,” Bruce points between them, “was platonic. Unless something’s changed, in which case I must have been out, and didn’t hear the news.”

“Is it that late? Wow, had no idea. You got time for a little therapy session, or what? Because something insane as fuck just happened.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that I’m not that sort of doctor?”

“Oh, come on, you’re a great therapist. Except for the falling asleep bit, but it’s a work in progress. I can get you a book, maybe—Pretending to be a Therapist for Dummies. I mean, not a therapist for dummies, considering I’m kind of a genius, it’s a theoretical _book_ for dummies. Not saying you’re a dummy either, though. That spot’s reserved for a certain bot who likes to spill shit everywhere.” He’s rambling now, and he knows it. “How about a science-bro-to-science-bro thing?”

Bruce sighs, tossing his glasses onto the dresser and running a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine, what happened?”

“I think I just kissed Loki.” Tony blurts out.

There’s a pause.

“Wait, you mean you hadn’t already?’

“What?”

Bruce raises an eyebrow. “Considering the way you two act, I thought you were already together.”

_”Why does everyone keep saying that?”_

“It’s not exactly hard to see.”

“Wait a sec, so you thought that and didn’t say anything? You just went with it?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Even after New York?’

“I don’t like him, and you know that, but he seems to get the fact that if he steps out of line I can and will beat him into the pavement. I think he realizes by now that he shouldn’t mess with me.”

“Oh, right. Holy fuck, though, man, You’ve gotta ask Loki about quantum theory. And I don’t mean, like, chat about harmonic oscillators or the role of the observer, I’m talking final theory here. The guy understands the mechanics, like _understands_ understands. He tried to show me what an apparent ‘over-simplification’ of it is, and I had a headache for a week. Apparently you can’t explain it in English, I don’t know, but it’s crazy shit.”

“Huh.” Bruce nods thoughtfully.

“Did I mention that I kissed him? Well, briefly. And it wasn’t a really hardcore one, I mean, no tongue or anything, but I’m pretty sure I kissed him. Sort of. Holy fuck, I’m insane.”

“I’m not exactly the best guy to ask about this sort of stuff, Tony. The last relationship I was in ended with her dad chasing me around the world with half the US Armed Forces.”

“Oh _come on,_ I’m having a crisis here!”

“Okay, okay. I’ll try. Did he kiss you back?”

Tony laughs uncomfortably. “Um, no, he kind of shoved me away, slapped me, and stormed off. I think my jaw is bruised.”

“Did you follow him?”

“Hell no, do you think I have a deathwish? Besides, I’m still trying to process the fact that _I kissed Loki!”_

“How long have you had feelings for him? Or was this one of your one-night-stand things?”

“What do you think I am, come on! I gave up the playboy thing when I was with Pepper.”

“Well, yeah, but she broke up with you a while ago.”

“How do _you_ know about that?”

“She calls me occasionally when she doesn’t know how to handle you. I’m not sure I’m much of a help.”

“That sneaky little– I’ll get her back for that. But I’ve been kind of busy ever since that, I haven’t really had time for the party scene… dealing with a blind chaos god doesn’t exactly lend itself to that shit.”

“Which brings me back to the original question.”

Tony sighs. “I don’t know, okay? Pepper knew something was going on pretty much since she found out he was here, hence the breakup, but it’s not like _I_ really know what’s going on. I didn’t even _mean_ to kiss him, there was just a lot of shouting and being pissed at each other and then suddenly we were locking lips!”

“Did you ever think that maybe an argument wasn’t the best time to start something?”

“I _wasn’t thinking!_ Shit just happened!”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Tony. Maybe give him some time to cool off and then talk to him tomorrow?”

He runs a hand through his hair, still stuck on the way Loki’d looked at him. “Yeah, I guess, okay.”

“Can I have my bed back, now?”

“Yeah, yeah… I’m going…”

*

Loki doesn’t show for lunch the next day or answer when Tony raps lightly on his door, so he peeks into the room to find the god curled around a pillow fast asleep.

Typical.

Thor never sleeps in like this, but then again, Thor’s principals are pretty damn different. He tries to help others; Loki’s focus is on helping himself. Both are fair, he supposes.

As it turns out, Loki doesn’t appear for the rest of the week. Bruce gets slightly annoyed, seeing as his unpaid staff (Tony’s not sure that volunteer is the right word) decided to take a few days off without warning, but Tony starts to feel more guilty than anything. It had been a pretty stupid, reckless thing to do, all things considered. Loki’s the sort of person who’ll sit silently through god only knows how much torture and not bat an eye, but anything vaguely emotional turns the guy into a time bomb.

Yeah.

Tony’s an idiot.

An accidental idiot, but definitely still an idiot.

*

Light footsteps are what finally alert him to Loki’s presence, sometime Tuesday evening when the sun is throwing a spectrum of glowing pinks and oranges into the darkening sky and Tony is sprawled out on the couch working on a patch for a security glitch in Jarvis’ remote software for his suits that he really doesn’t want someone like Doom to take advantage of. He stands, setting his tablet down on the coffee table, and turns toward the door to find Loki stalking toward him, expression near-unreadable in the dimming light.

“Look, …That was stupid, I wasn’t thinking. Sorry if I misread shit, I didn’t mean to screw things u–”

Loki shoves him backwards, resolve flashing slightly terrifyingly in his clouded eyes as Tony falls heavily backwards onto the cushions, having not seen the movement until it’s too late to catch himself. The apparent anger from last week still seems to smoulder, but in possibly the most unpredictable thing that’s happened in the past few months (which is really saying something) Loki slings a leg over his lap and catches his lips in a bruising kiss.

There’s nothing gentle about it, almost none of the restraint he’s so used to the god using around him. The confusion of the week before is gone entirely and replaced by chaos that is Loki to the bone. It’s like kissing a thunderstorm or a wildfire—a force of nature he can only sit and endure until he can’t take it anymore and has to push the god away to pull in gasping breaths.

“Holy _fuck.”_

Loki’s demeanor is feral, something akin to the madness that had taken hold when he’d joined forces with Hydra and fought tooth and nail against SHIELD. It’s terrifying as fuck, and should _not_ be as riveting as it is.

“Tell me why.”

“Wha–?”

“Last week. Tell me _why.”_

It takes an embarrassingly long few moments to get his mind off the threatening snarl and find an answer to the question he’s been asking himself ever since it happened. He still doesn’t know entirely why he did it, but Loki’s disconcerting proximity throws at least part of it into stunning clarity.

“Because you scare the hell out of me,” he breathes, staring up at the god. “Because you’re a hurricane; you’ve torn my world down around me since the day we met and there’s nothing I can do but watch. Because you’re beautiful and dangerous, as likely to save me as you are to kill me, and the only person who’s ever looked me in the eye and told me the ugly truth without sugarcoating shit. Because we’re both fucking trainwrecks and I love every second of it. Everyone else might see destruction, but I’ve never gotten along well with peace and I’m starting to find chaos incarnate way more attractive than I should.”

Loki stares, hands bracketing Tony’s head and body keeping him trapped in place. “Don’t lie to me. I’ll tear you limb from limb and tear your still-beating heart from your ribs.”

“I’m not lying; I mean every word. You’re impossible, and insane, and the first person I’ve spent any amount of time with and not gotten bored by.” Once he starts talking, starts trying to explain the utter ridiculousness of his actions, the words take on a life of their own and sprint down the same pattern as his racing thoughts. He’s never been great at the whole brain-to-mouth filter thing, but apparently it’s gone altogether now as realization sinks in and he’s forced to come to terms with what he’s been avoiding the past few months.. “I’ve got Bruce for science, and Rhodey for harassing, and Pepper for work, but _you_ I’ve got for trust. And if that’s not the most backwards, screwed-up shit I’ve ever said then I don’t know what is, but I do.”

“What do you want from me?” the god cries in bewildered anger.

Tony decides that, fuck it, there’s really no going back now.

“What are you willing to give?”

*.*.*

The question is enough to make the flames of rage stutter, if only because he honestly doesn’t have an answer. He’s courted, and married, and done any number of forbidden things which Asgard would condemn him for. He’s known love, and friendship, and hatred, and loathing… but never has anyone asked what he _wants_ to give to another.

“I–… I don’t know,” he admits, and sits back. Stark’s outburst had stunned him, and he can’t find a response. The fool mortal actually managed to put him at a loss for words.

“You’re beautiful.”

“Flattery will earn you nothing; I am no doubt scarred beyond recognition,” Loki spits.

“I’m serious. I mean, yeah, you’ve got scars…” Fingers brush his cheek and it’s all he can do not to flinch away. “But come on. You really are. And that’s not me trying to coerce you into anything, for the record—I’m just kind of having an emotional crisis here and words are happening. That’s what happens; I get freaked and start saying whatever comes to mind. I’m guessing you’ve realized that by now.”

“I have. Now tell me why you kissed me, and stop trying to be poetic because it doesn’t suit you.”

“Ouch, Donder.”

“Just do it!”

“Alright, alright, chill. It wasn’t like I planned it, okay? Hence the somewhat also confused Tony. But you were there, and I was pissed, and you were pissed, and I have no fucking idea why but I did it without thinking.”

The embers flare up, but he keeps his voice calm and apathetic.“So it was idiocy in the heat of the moment, nothing with meaning.”

“Well, I’m not going to deny the idiocy part, but if I absolutely have to admit it then yeah, I kind of realized around the time you stormed off that holy fuck I liked it. Not that I’m not cool with just staying friends or anything,” Stark quickly amends, “I don’t want to make it weird, but, y’know… I don’t know. I might not actually mind taking you to dinner or something, if you’re into that.”

The mortal sounds rather flustered, surprisingly, and it’s enough to calm him a bit. He still doesn’t know how to answer the question, and trying to process the best response is giving him a killer headache.

It’s not entirely accurate to say that he hasn’t a clue, but… there are things he keeps to himself—nearly hides from himself—and what he truly wishes for is one of them. Instead, he lets the venom return to his voice.

“And what makes you think I am to feel anything? You speak as though you could ever see me acting toward you with passion. You think me capable of that?” Loki scoffs.

“You’re pissed right now, aren’t you?”

“What a brilliant observation; did you work that out for yourself?”

Stark sighs and rests a hand on his shoulder. Loki is fairly sure he never gave permission for such a gesture. “No, you’re missing the point. You act like you can’t do it, but you can’t be angry like that without passion. Otherwise you’d just be apathetic.”

He snarls, having no other reaction at hand.

“Oh, come on. You kissed me, so it can’t be that mine was so bad the first time if you decided you wanted to do it again.”

“I needed to gauge your reaction,” Loki says with an edge of malice.

“You’re impossible.”

“You keep repeating that. I’m blind, not stupid; I understood you the first time.”

Stark drums his fingers against Loki’s shoulder and hums thoughtfully. “So… dinner?”

He cries out in frustration and shoves the insufferable man back against the cushions.

“Aww, does someone need a hug?”

“I will saw off your limbs with an exacto knife to keep them in my lair, and I will enjoy every second of it.”

“Fine. Turn around then.”

“Excuse me?”

“Around. Turn. I thought you said you were smart?”

Stark gives no further explanation, instead poking his arm repeatedly until he’s annoyed enough to follow instructions just to stop the insolent fool.

“Relax, Loki,” the man says more calmly than he’d expected as he runs a hand up Loki’s back. “I’m not going to make you do something you don’t want to, and let’s face it—I couldn’t even if I wanted to. You’d just kick my ass into an alternate dimension where everyone’s zombies or something.”

“Quite possibly.”

Try as he might to avoid it, the tension slowly drains from his body. He can’t help it, really—this isn’t something many have ever taken the time to do for him without being ordered, and the hand that runs through his hair has become synonymous with safety. It’s cheating, really, but still effective.

“You have three options,” he eventually says when the raging fire has dwindled again without anything to stoke it with.

“Yeah?”

“We can walk away now, agreeing upon the fact that it never happened and returning to the way things were,” he starts, only to be interrupted.

“I don’t really like that one.”

“I’m not finished,” he says with a scowl. “Or you kiss me again, I drag you to your bedroom, and take you apart piece by piece beneath me until you know naught but my name and what it is to be the offering to a god.”

“Now _that’s_ sounding a bit more like it. A little scary, but not entirely against that option.”

“Your choice?”

“Wait, you said there were three—don’t skimp on me now, buddy.”

Loki tenses just the slightest amount. Not enough for a mortal to notice, but he himself can. “The third option is that we court.”

“Okay, see, _that_ one I did not see coming from you. Although seriously, it’s twenty-forteen, we say date now. When are you from, the seventeen hundreds?”

“I don’t mean date,” he says scornfully, “I mean court. I am a prince—or I was—and I’ll not be treated as a mortal. I’ll accept no less than the proper way of Asgard.”

“Someone’s up on their high horse today.”

“I loathe you.”

“No you don’t. Can I kiss you now without you freaking out on me? Because I have a bizarre and kind of overwhelming desire to kiss you. Which is weird as fuck. This entire thing is weird as fuck, to be honest.”

“So you choose the second option.”

“Well, which do _you_ want?”

“I am fine with any of them—I’d not have offered were I not.”

It’s a lie, but he needs to know Stark’s answer. Needs to know his intentions.

“…can we combine two and three? Because I still want to get dinner, but fuck, I should not be so turned on by the idea of you above me. That’s supposed to be my job. Hell, I don’t even know for sure if I’m bi; you’re just really fucking incredible and I officially give up on understanding the past few days. I’m just rolling with this shit because I don’t know what else to do. I confuse myself.”

He shakes his head. “No. The two are mutually exclusive.”

“Dammit.” Arms wrap around his waist from behind, pulling him back against the mortal’s chest. He knows their body temperatures aren’t _that_ different—his own is normally just a hair warmer than room temperature, although it fluctuates slightly with the environment like his body is trying to compensate—but the mortal’s hands feel as though he has been warming them by the fire for a while too long. “Okay, fine. Dinner it is, if that’s good enough for Your Majesty.”

That’s… unexpected. His assumption was that Stark would live up to his reputation as a rather promiscuous man, and while Loki has no real desire to bed the man, he would do it if only to appease him and return things to as normal as they could ever be afterwards.

The idea of any relationship beyond haphazard friendship scares him—none have ever ended happily. This one cannot, either.

“So… can I maybe still kiss you, though?”

He gives a resigned nod. “If you must.”

“That’s not exactly the most convincing answer, you know.”

Loki turns back around, still in the mortal’s embrace, to straddle his lap again (although with a different intention than when he’d stormed into the room). “No, I–…” He sighs and reaches out, only to grasp at air. This damned emptiness never ceases to curse him. His second try he catches Stark’s jaw, and runs a thumb along his cheek before resting their foreheads together. “I want to. It’s just…”

“C’mon, just tell me what’s the matter.”

He’s tempted to lie, but Stark’s concern is genuine and it feels wrong.

“I know where this will lead. And… I’m frightened.”

“Like I said, we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, but it’ll be alright.”

Perhaps it’s foolish, but the words are enough to put him at ease. Stark equates to safety, whether or not he can actually do anything, considering what they’ve been through together..

He tilts the man’s chin up slightly and leans forward so their noses touch. Stark’s breath hitches, just slightly—without asgardian hearing he wouldn’t have picked it up—but the man doesn’t move. Like he thinks he’ll spook him if he does.

Granted, it might.

“I trust you, Tony,” Loki whispers honestly as their lips brush, and kisses him gently.

There’s nothing expected, nothing asked for, just… kindness. Acceptance. He smiles slightly, and fingers run through his hair in such a familiar gesture that he relaxes and just allows himself a moment of peace.

It’s hard to say who pulls away first, but it doesn’t really matter. The mortal’s hand comes to rest against his neck and he can’t help the tiniest hint of a smile that tugs at his lips as he leans into it without meaning to. It’s surreal, and will no doubt bring him discomfort when it’s sunk in, but he can’t bring himself to care at the moment.

“I could get used to that,” Stark admits.

“What is it that has you so fascinated by my lips?”

“No fucking idea, man. Shit just kind of happens.”

“Perhaps you’re going insane. Assuming you are not already, which is strongly debateable.”

“You’re insufferable,” the mortal laughs, lightly cupping Loki’s face in his hands. “…may I?”

He hesitates, then nods.

Lips catch his again as he bends his head to make up for the height difference—he swears there must be halfling blood in the man—and this time is no more demanding than the first. Things feel a little more alright, like the looming threat has been lifted for a moment or two, and the feeling of calm persists even when he leans slightly back again to rest their foreheads together.

“Yeah, I definitely like that,” Stark tells him decisively.

Banner is not around and he’s accepted the fact that Stark has seen facets of him he’d normally not share, so Loki lets out a breath and shifts to wrap his arms around the mortal and rest his head on his shoulder. He can feel Stark smile against his neck.

“So, does this mean you’re not planning to start burning buildings for the next few minutes, at least?”

“Don’t overestimate yourself, idiot mortal.”

*

When he pulls his boots off a little while later and curls up in bed, he sleeps dreamlessly through the night.

Tony sleeps peacefully that night too.

 


	48. Focus

Within five minutes of waking, Tony is having some serious second thoughts.

What the hell was he thinking? This is Loki. _Loki._ The batshit insane alien god who likes to blow shit up in his free time.

And he fucking _kissed him._

He’s made some pretty stupid, reckless decisions in his life, but this takes the cake.

There is no way this can work. Honestly, this is probably just Loki fucking with him so that he can make fun of him later. Tony doesn’t want to think about what it means if not—he had a hard enough time with commitment to Pepper, and the god is a thousand times more complicated than she is. Not that she isn’t an awesome person, but… Loki is something else entirely. He’s got more issues than even Tony does, which is saying something.

His clothes from last night are in a heap on the floor by the bed, and he almost trips on them trying to get to his closet from the shower. Every morning he can’t help but marvel as he gets dressed at the lack of palladium-based glass in his chest where the reactor once resided—for years he’d slowly fought to accept the fact that he’d never be without it. Took a little bit of (highly-modified) Extremis to do, but between that and a few of the world’s best surgeons and he’s shrapnel-free. Well, mostly. The little that’s left is benign.

By the time he’s haphazardly clothed in a light grey sweater and jeans, he’s talked himself out of the insanity and decided to break things off before they start so that they can both avoid the shitstorm that will no doubt ensue otherwise. Relationships are for people who can make it through a night without flinching at every other shadow.

When Tony wanders out into the kitchen, he’s quite surprised to find the toaster warm and half-finished breakfast on the counter. For once in his life he’d managed woke up early (and feeling relatively human, considering) and had figured nobody else would be awake yet.

The floor creaks behind him and a jet-haired god pads in socked feet across the wood to the counter. Tony opens his mouth to talk—to tell him that this was all a stupid idea—but Loki slides a plate across the counter and speaks before he can.

“Eat. We train in an hour.” His expression is sharp, as if to make up for his clouded eyes, and leaves no room for argument.

It’s the first time Loki’s shown up in pyjamas without a robe or something since that one time after his pissy week with the t-shirt, and his long-sleeves are pushed up not quite to his elbows as he finishes making breakfast to reveal the latticework of old scars and a few newer tallies that run haphazardly over them. His shirt, a thin black hooded v-neck, is actually kind of surprising overall considering it bares the top of his arc reactor and leaves the rest pretty obviously visible. It’s not a bad look,  just unexpected.

Loki pours him a glass of what turns out to be a vanilla-almond smoothie (and okay though, seriously, where the hell does the guy _learn_ to make all this shit?) and sinks into the chair beside him with his own plate.

“How’d you sleep?” Tony asks.

“Well, surprisingly.”

“Bad week before that?”

“Mm,” the god confirms half-heartedly. “It’s hard to chase off darkness when it’s everywhere you turn, even with your eyes open.”

It’s probably in part because Bruce won’t be up and about the apartment for another couple hours, but the unspoken show of trust makes the words he’d planned die in his mouth as the god glances up toward him. Damn, does trust look good on Loki. Sure, it’s tainted by the pain hiding behind those words, but the candid admission gives him pause. He knows he should say something, to tell Loki that this is a bad idea, but fuck if seeing the asshole doesn’t shove in his face the fact that he really doesn’t want to.

“You’re rather quiet this morning,” Loki comments after he finishes a bite of his toast. “I do hope you’re not falling asleep, because we have work to do if you’re ever going to be able to truly defend yourself.”

“Zoned out, sorry. Tired and thinking.”

“About what?”

“You.”

The god raises an eyebrow. “ Should I be concerned?”

“Dunno. Is there something concerning about me? I mean, besides the general crap judgement and likelihood to run headfirst into danger without thinking first?”

“I’d consider the second to be part of the first.”

“Hey! You’re supposed to say, ‘No, Tony, your judgment is awesome and you’re fucking brilliant,’ not agree!”

Loki shrugs. “It would be a lie.”

“You’re the _god_ of lies.”

“I don’t like lying to you,” he says, voice calm and startlingly honest.

Well, someone’s feeling positive today. Tony guesses it’s probably the quiet morning, and the way time seems to slow as the sun rises—even the dust suspended in space seems to be calmer at this hour. It’s a big change from city life, one he’d nearly forgotten after so many years on the party scene. The circumstances may be less than ideal, but he’ll appreciate what he can.

Something about the entire situation makes Loki seem years (or centuries, in his case) younger. Maybe it’s in part due to the short hair, or the rare and slightly more human-normal clothing, or just how openly he’s speaking, but suddenly the difference in their age becomes strikingly clear. Twenty-seven, he’d said? God damn.

“What’s all this about training?”

“Mornings are the best time to do so, and considering recent events you need to be more prepared. From now on, you wake earlier so that we can spar before I work. Understood?”

“I hate morning. Can’t we at least do night?”

“No.” Loki’s tone offers no hope of argument, so he relents and turns to another important detail.

“Before _you_ work? What do you think I do all day, sit around on my ass and eat bonbons?  I’ve got shit to do too!”

“What, harass Jarvis?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m still running the R&D department at Stark Industries through a shadowy bit of code and a couple faithful worker bees. SHIELD hasn’t made public that I’m on the run yet, apparently—bad for PR, y’know, when your big superhero goes AWOL with Earth’s arch-nemesis—but the high-leveled employees who are under a fuckton of nondisclosure agreements found out. Don’t know where I am, but they know I’m metaphorically off-grid and not keen on Fury finding me. I’ve got good people who don’t ask questions, and I’m still working with them through Jarvis while we’re off gallivanting about Siberia.”

“I don’t _gallivant,”_ Loki tells him derisively, nose curling up in disgust. "That sounds so undignified."

"Right, and you're totally gunning for king of dignified when you try to take over this hellhole of a planet."

"Oh, please, if I simply wanted a dignified people I would have gone to the elves."

"The _what?"_

“Elves. Like in Tolkien’s works?”

“Yeah, no, I know what elves are, but they’re _real?”_

“Of course they are,” the god scoffs. “Many races of them, across all nine realms. They may not act like it, but they’re rather the dominant species in Yggdrasil.”

“My life is a lie. I think I need to go have a mid-life crisis now…”

“You live in a world where humankind has begun to mutate at an alarming rate, where you have harnessed lightening to suit your whims, where you reside with a _god,_ and it’s the existence of elves that fazes you?”

Tony groans and drops his head into his hands. “Everything is insane. Everything.”

“Well, yes, but life is far more interesting that way, wouldn’t you agree? Where’s the fun in knowing everything? It’s all about the endless pursuit.”

_“Elves.”_

Loki chuckles and takes a sip from his glass. “Yes, elves. Quite a respectable populace overall, although of course such a widespread species has its variety. Álfheim has rather stunning landscapes in the main kingdom, as well.”

“So, essentially… there’s Earth, and then there are eight planets straight out of Final Fantasy.”

“I don’t understand the reference, but I suppose so,” he agrees, and stares off into the distance wistfully. “They are magnificent.”

“You miss it, don’t you?”

He blinks, pulled out of his momentary reverie. “Miss what?”

“All of it. Asgard, travelling, fighting ‘glorious’ battles, magic… the world—worlds—at your fingertips.” Tony takes another bite of banana toast.

Loki’s gaze turns toward his hands, and he regards them blindly. There’s a tinge of resigned sorrow in his voice when he speaks. “Of course I do. You can’t comprehend what it’s like to lose something so integral as magic… it’s like half my soul has been rent from my chest. More than that. I walk half-dead now, blinded far more completely than you would consider my lack of sight to do. Magic is… it’s everything and nothing, at the same time. The breath between words and the the moment of suspension between rise and descent as you leap, the first and last seconds of one’s life, the bar between measures, the line between stanzas– magic is everything beautiful and intangible, flowing through your veins and burning you alive.” He traces complex patterns on the table, seemingly without thought, and desperate passion seeps into his words.

“Magic, Stark… magic is wild; it cannot be tamed or controlled. It’s the knife-edge that separates agony from euphoria and its temper is unpredictable and deadly. It surrounds us, holds everything together—even time—and could let go on a whim for no reason at all.”

The sheer emotion behind Loki’s description makes Tony shiver, and he knows full well he can’t completely understand. “Kinda like you.”

The god gives a breathless laugh. “It is a love affair, Stark—an addiction I cannot break and have no care to. I’d do near anything to get that back.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

“Norns, it is…” A rare smile graces his lips at the memory, even though pain has settled in his eyes.

Tony rubs his shoulder sympathetically, and Loki leans into it for a moment before standing abruptly and finishing the last of his smoothie.

“Come, we have work to do.”

*

“I am wearing no armor.”

He pauses, right arm halfway to a block, and gets cuffed in the ear for his efforts.

“Ow! Asshole!”

“You let your guard down, ‘tis your own fault.”

“Only because you started talking to me.”

“Distraction is deadly.”

“Yeah, yeah, can it. What the hell are you on about?”

“The reason you’ve been sparring with me for over a year and still struggle so badly,” Loki answers.

“Besides the fact that you have fucking _three thousand years_ of practice over me?”

“Well, yes. But your entire issue—look at yourself.”

“What? That I’m incredibly handsome?”

The god sighs. “No, you fool; you have not your suit.”

 _“Really?”_ Tony asks in feigned shock. “I hadn’t noticed!”

“You’re insufferable… but think for a moment. When did you truly start training to fight?”

“I dunno, two thousand eight?”

“After you escaped Afghanistan,” he clarifies.

“Well, yeah.”

“Precisely. You learned to fight encased in metal, with ranged weaponry and immunity to near all standard human techniques and weapons—your style is based off of brute force and quick thinking. Never before have you had to do so with bare flesh and no more than mortal strength.”

“That sounds like I’m naked, just FYI.”

“What I have been trying to teach you all this time, especially since our flight from SHIELD,” Loki continues, not deigning to reply to the comment, “is the very opposite. It’s not thinking up as many tricks as possible; it’s about learning by rote a specific few until they come as easily to you as breathing. You long for action, but fighting is patience. I know tens of thousands of movements and techniques, all of which I am proficient at and have employed when the time saw fit, but my entire style of combat is based upon six. Just six, that I still practice dozens of times daily or more. Everything else builds from those.” The god cocks his head, eyes half-squinted in thought. “Sit.”

“What?”

Loki settles on the ground, crosslegged, and gestures to the space in front of him. “Sit,” he repeats.

The ground is moist, and drops of dew still glitter like crystals on the late spring grass. It’s not particularly comfortable, seeing as the water seeps into his clothing wherever it touches, but Loki seems unbothered.

“Okay, I’m sitting… please don’t use some freaky Norse takedown move or some shit, because I really like my face.”

“Your appearance matters little to me, given that I cannot see, but I’m not planning to attack you for the time being.”

“That’s only slightly reassuring.”

“I could always kick you in the teeth if it would make you more comfortable.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Loki chuckles and shakes his head. “Close your eyes, fool.”

“You’re really not inspiring good faith here….”

“Just do as I say, and I won’t stab you.”

All things considered, there’s really no good way to counter that—the guy has too many knives for anyone’s good—so Tony does as told.

“Do you remember what I taught you on the airplane? The rune?”

He has to throw his memory back a little ways, seeing as it’s not exactly the first thing every morning, but he hasn’t completely forgotten. “The ‘Y’ thing?”

“Algiz,” Loki sighs, “yes. When we spoke then I told you to fixate on your emotion and thoughts, but now I want you to do the opposite. Call up the rune in your mind and focus entirely on the form of it.”

“Oh god, please tell me you’re not about to start telling me that clear-your-mind crap. I can’t do that meditation shit you and Bruce do,” Tony whines, opening one eye as he pouts.

“I am a god, yes, but no,” Loki replies dryly, “I’m not going to instruct you to do so. Meditation is not so much about _emptying_ one’s thoughts, but rather attaining a very acute concentration. It’s something you’re already quite good at, you just don’t realize it yet.”

Yeah, right. He’s a scientist, not a monk; his thoughts race fast enough to question the truth behind light as a cosmic speed-limit, and there’s no way thinking about a fucking letter is going to magically stop that. Nothing ever has, whether he’s wanted it to or not.

He tells Loki as much, but the asgardian just raises an eyebrow at him.

“Is that so? You say that, but I think you deceive yourself. I’ve seen you work–”

“You’re blind,” Tony comments.

“That’s not what I mean, you idiotic mortal, and you well know that. My point is that when you are in your workshop, you become so completely absorbed in your equations that you almost entirely detach from the world.”

“I do not–”

This time it’s Loki who cuts him off. “I’m not saying that’s bad, in fact I think it is incredibly useful. I do the same thing myself. The connection I am trying to show you is that you are already fully capable of tuning your focus with the right conditions. That is the sort of headspace you aim for, and all I wish for you to do is practice obtaining it without that work to trigger it.”

“Can’t we just go back to me trying not to get punched in the face?”

The god rests his hands loosely on his knees and breathes deeply. “No.” His voice is soft and steady, but still entirely decisive. “We’ve trained your way and gotten nowhere; now we train my way.”

He makes a face, not happy with the change of pace. “Uh, yeah, not seeing me getting any stronger or faster sitting around on my ass, asshole.”

“I have not survived as long as I have by wasting time, mortal. If you wish to truly master your body you must equally train your mind.”

This is so stupid.

“Algiz, do you see it?”

“Yeah, along with seven hundred and fifty-two more useful things to do.”

Loki doesn’t take the bait. “You’re a novice, and as such there will be mental chatter. Don’t get caught on it. Acknowledge its presence, then let it go.”

“This is so degrading.”

“How so?”

Tony scowls. “I feel like a hippie.”

“I really don’t know if I care to find out what that is.”

“Oh my god, we are _so_ watchi–”

 _“Stark,”_ Loki snaps. “Algiz.”

Moments tick by at a snail’s pace, seconds feeling like hours, until Tony feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. He can fight aliens and monsters, but sitting still and not doing anything isn’t on his extensive skillset. At all.

“The Elk-sedge has its home most oft on the fen,” the god murmurs after a time. “It waxes in water, wounds grimly. The blood burns of every man who makes any grasp at it.”

The words are familiar, but he can’t place them. Something Loki’s said before.

“What is that?”

“A portion of the rune poems.” Loki’s breaths are soft, softer than his own, but more controlled than when the god is asleep. The sudden shift to complete peacefulness is kind of jarring, actually, and it’s totally not fair he can pull the meditation shit this fast. His words seem to mingle just slightly with the cool morning breeze, like he’s half-mixed with the world around him. “Memory aids, really, to learn them and their kennings. We don’t have a song like your kind does; this is our method of learning them.”

“You’re teaching me the ABC’s,” Tony checks, unimpressed.

“Yes and no. Runes are letters in a very basic sense, but encompass far more than that. Remember how I told you once that the upper classes of Asgard very rarely learn actual words? That they speak in concept?”

“Yeah?”

“They have no need of letters when their language is as such. Thor has no concept of what a letter is beyond a shape. Runes can be used to spell out words, yes, but they are far more complex in meaning than that. They have a letter association, but also separate concepts to which they are tied, as well as power inherent within them. Yes, it is an alphabet, but I teach it to you not for that purpose.”

Tony ponders that for a minute. “Then why?”

“Why does anyone teach anything? To pass information on, to share knowledge… in this case it is relevant knowledge, seeing as it is the rune of protection and opportunity. You train now in order to protect yourself, and when I first introduced it to you it was to provide protection from haunting thoughts. It has enough association to what I am trying to train you with that it is a decent focus for meditation. In time you’ll learn to sink into such a state without it, but this serves its purpose in the meantime.”

In his defense, he does try. He keeps his eyes closed and tries to think about the not-letter thingamajig, but it lasts all of five seconds before all he can focus on is how his pants are wet and there’s a bug buzzing in his ear. Fucking nature. This is why he stays inside.

Oh, right.

Letter thingy.

_Focus, Tony. You can do this._

Pfft, no he can’t. Let the asshole extraordinaire do all the flower-child shit. The only way Tony Stark resembles a hippie is that he’s into clean energy, and that was sort of a mistake.

Wait, right, clearing his mind. Meditation and shit. Don’t think of anything.

Not thinking about anything. Thinking about nothing. Just black. Nothing. Noth–

No, shit shit shit, backtracking, not thinking about nothing. Nothing is _bad._ Nothing equals the void, and the void equals very not-nice things that he’s _not_ thinking about.

Just going to forget that now.

Not thinking about nothing, thinking about things. Things like… the universe. The good part, not the scary part. The Neil deGrasse Tyson shit with the stardust and supernovas and everything.

Aw fuck, now he’s got Symphony of Science stuck in his head.

“Stop humming,” Loki chides him after a few minutes. “You’re hopeless.”

“Hey! I tried!”

The god stands and stretches, distinctly unamused. “I sincerely doubt that, and even if you were, you seem to have failed quite miserably. However little you agree with my practices you cannot disagree with the fact that I have experience and should try to be at least a _little_ more open to other approaches. Honestly.”

A late spring breeze rustles the grass, and brings with it the odd mixed scent of earth and polluted water that seems to be the norm here. He sighs and closes his eyes again, missing the city. Or Malibu, even better, but he’d settle for the Big Apple any day over hiding in some godforsaken town in Siberia.

“Your thoughts are loud,” Loki says softly.

Tony jumps, not expecting the voice in his ear. How the hell does that asshole sneak around so easily when he’s blind? Loki’s boots scuff the dirt behind him as the god kneels behind him, and Tony decides he’s not completely comfortable with his back to him given the fact that they’re supposed to be fighting or whatever right now.

“What are you doing, reading my mind?”

“You have to invite me in if you wish me to do so, Stark,” he replies, as though it’s normal for people to do shit like that. “By the Norns, just relax… you’re wound tighter than a racehorse at the line. The goal is to let go of distraction, fool, not find every issue you have with yourself and dwell on it, or whatever it is you’re doing.”

He can’t hold back a rather unmanly yelp when thumbs dig into his shoulders. “Fuck, Loki! Mortal, remember?”

The god chuckles apologetically, and Tony has a hard time figuring out if it was accidental or not, but the pressure eases to a less painful level. Lithe fingers dance down his spine, deft movements that ease the knots in his back a thousandfold.

“Fuck…” The word is a lot more appreciative this time. Tony starts to seriously wonder why he’s never made Loki do this before, because the guy’s damn good at it. Fucking hell. He tilts his head down while the god follows his spine up his neck and hums approvingly at the treatment.

“Algiz,” Loki reminds him.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m working on it…”

He’s not planning to admit it to anyone, but he does manage to get a _little_ closer to the whole meditation thing over the next fifteen or twenty minutes. Not saying that he likes it or anything, but he feels a tiny bit less stupid sitting there with his eyes closed.

Granted, that’s probably mostly due to the stellar massage he’s getting the whole time, but still.

Loki drums his fingers on Tony’s shoulder lightly. “What you’re feeling now,” he says, voice soft enough to weave itself into the wind, “that singular concentration, I want you to hold onto. Clutch it tight to your chest and don’t let it go, but open your eyes.”

It’s almost weird when he does, because as obvious as the light is he’d gotten strangely used to having his eyes closed. The presence behind him vanishes, and Loki holds a hand out to him.

“Algiz isn’t so important now. Use it as a focus point if this headspace starts to slip, but otherwise follow my instruction. Are we clear?”

He nods.

“Good. Now, there are two ways to act in combat: becoming completely feral and abandoning control, or the very opposite. The former is something to be done carefully, as allowing yourself that sort of freedom is a dangerous indulgence whose consequences will not be slight. In most situations, the best way to fight is to let instinct take over in a far more controlled way. Keep your mindset as it is now, free of clutter, and let yourself become hyper aware of all that transpires around you. Most importantly, though, remain perfectly calm. The trick is to stay both at the same time. The adrenaline of battle will kick in, yes, but don’t let it take over. Keep your head.”

Loki runs his hands over Tony’s shoulders to check his posture, then launches into teaching him a training routine for footwork. Tony tries to complain once or twice about getting bored by the repetition, but a not-so-subtle threat to his bodily integrity—complete with knife a bit too close to his person—puts an end to that quickly and they spend the next couple hours running through the same forms. On the plus side, it’s one of the first times they’ve trained together that hasn’t ended with him face-first in the dirt.

On the down side, the asshole has an uncanny ability to tell when Tony’s slipping out of the zen mentality he’s supposed to be in, and likes to whack him with things.

But still. Baby steps.

*’*’*

“So… dinner?” the mortal asks him sometime later, when they’ve showered and are watching Poseidon on the couch. The movie started out alright but quickly devolved into a debate on ship naming, which then ended up in a heated discussion about godhood and religion.

Norns, are mortals stubborn in their ways.

Loki turns his head in Stark’s lap to look up in his direction and enjoys the slight ache in his muscles when he stretches from time spent training instead of sitting around the infirmary and taping over shallow cuts. It’s never been in his blood to be a healer.

“I do believe it’s a bit early for that, considering we’ve only just finished lunch,” he answers, and points to where he’d stacked their empty plates on the coffee table halfway through the film.

“No, I don’t mean now, asshole,” Stark derides. “Like I’d asked last night—you, me, someplace nice…”

Ah. That.

“Unless that doesn’t fit your whole ‘courtship’ schtick, in which case do enlighten me,” he continues.

Norns… Loki runs a hand over his face. Not this again. What happened the previous night was rampant emotion and poor self-control. He’s been in more than enough relationships to know that Stark’s expectations and his own desires will in no way, shape, or form ever align. That’s one benefit of political marriages—there is a clear understanding of what is entailed. Far fewer variables that way, even if there is often little choice in the matter.

Any sort of courtship will inevitably be complicated by their genders, anyway. Asgardian society has always been strict about male and female roles in day-to-day activities, and relationships are no different. There’s no way in Nine he’ll chase after a mortal like a lost, lovestruck pup, but neither will he—Loki sits up, realizing his position—have another man treat him as though he’s some blushing maiden. That would just be disgraceful.

Romance is far, far overrated, and he has no need of it. He’s perfectly content with things as they stand between himself and Stark, as they’re significantly less hostile than most other relationships he’s engaged in as of late. The past year has been good; why should that change?

Yet the mortal dangles the promise of _more_ before him like a carrot on a rod in front of an ass. With just a few words the man has unwittingly baited a cruel trap with which to catch a god, and _valkyries_ does he want. Stark has no idea how much. None do.

Nor, for that matter, has Stark the slightest inkling as to what the affections of an immortal can amount to… weaving a net to catch the younger prince’s heart is no simple task, which could be likened to snaring the wind, but one need only ask a certain red-haired boy to learn the passion with which the same royal son loves. There’s never been a middle ground to Loki—such things are bred from raw emotion and not to be metered out gingerly.

No, Loki knows better than to carelessly give in to temptation, because once he allows it free reign there is no happy ending. Only a consummation devoutly to be feared.

“I’m thinking we steal Bruce’s Jeep this weekend and head up to Komsomolsk-on-Amur, see if we can’t find something to eat. You up for that?”

He drums his fingers on the arm of the sofa and tries to talk himself out of it.

There’s no way he should be idiotic enough to fall for the charade, not after all these centuries, yet all the same—Stark does sound sincere.

Then again, a mortal is hardly the best judge of rationality.

Still…

Norns, he’s going to regret this.

“It will suffice.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Stark complains, “my life is totally backwards. I switched brands of toothpaste last year and the press was all over it, but I get a date with a fucking _god_ and nobody’s around. Woe is me.”

Loki rolls his eyes. “Shall I call them? Perhaps I can put in a word with SHIELD as well, in case they’re curious as to how you’re spending your free time since you’ve run off. Propositioning the god of chaos—I’m sure it will do wonders for your reputation as a stand-up citizen.”

“Oh, come on, I’m not propositioning you. At least not like that. You’re the one who offered to fuck my brains out, not the other way around.”

He makes a face, having not needed any mental imagery in the slightest. “How obscene; I did nothing of the sort. The option was to be claimed by a god; I’d never speak in such a vulgar way.”

Stark snorts and it takes all the self-control he’s amassed over the past three millennia not to shove him off the couch onto the floor.

“Don’t laugh, fool. I was raised better than that.”

“Yeah, right, because murder’s cool as long as you don’t say ‘fuck.’ Obviously.”

Loki levels him with a distinctly unimpressed gaze. “Fuck you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because science: <http://youtu.be/akek6cFRZfY>
> 
> (Now with [art!](http://aconitine-apothecary.tumblr.com/post/79486017440/request-from-batberyl-halfstep-loki-in-meditation))


	49. Agreement

Tony isn’t a morning person. He never has been, and quite frankly he’s fine with staying up until ten a.m. and then falling asleep until seven at night. Some might call it a holdover from the party scene, but honestly he would have done the same thing as a kid if he didn’t get in trouble for it.

Hell, sometimes he did anyway.

Needless to say, being conscious at sunrise isn’t his favorite pastime and he’s starting to seriously consider smashing his phone and building a god-proof room to sleep in. Loki’s become adamant that they train daily, which is fine for the most part, except for the fact that he considers dawn to be the only appropriate time to do it.

Fucking Norse gods.

Every morning that week he gets dragged outside (quite literally, a couple times) to meditate while the sky is just starting to take on a yellow tinge and the first birds are chirping. Seriously, there’s too much meditating. At least half an hour of the shit before they actually _do_ anything—the one time he tried to escape in the early hours of the morning beforehand, Loki had left him with a nice-sized bruise when he’d quite literally kicked his ass in an unfairly one-sided sparring match.

Fucking. Norse. Gods.

Now Tony suffers through the boredom, but his mind really isn’t meant for this. He’s a doer, when it comes down to it—if he’s thinking, his hands have to be moving. He’s not like Loki, who can sit silently and plan out detailed schemes without so much as batting an eye.

The god isn’t patient with him, exactly, but there’s still something slightly more forgiving about his attitude than usual—slightly being the operative word there. There’s been a fairly unexpected shift from getting beaten around to focusing on specific drills and routines, to the point that it reminds him more of practicing songs and scales on an instrument than it does the training he’s grown used to.

After they run through practice forms, they fall into a routine in which Tony will try to sneak away, Loki will grab him by the throat (or hair, or shirt, or arm, depending on the god’s aim on the given day) to threaten his slow and painful death, and then they’ll both sit down again to meditate for another half hour. On Tuesday, the initial reaction is sudden and powerful enough that Tony ends up half-falling back onto the ground and ends up with a sore hip over the following few days, which thankfully seems to be enough to slightly lessen how hard the god yanks him around. At least the next two mornings Tony expects it and has enough time to brace himself that he only ends up in minor amounts of pain afterwards.

On Friday he comes with a plan, which should—if all goes accordingly—let him dodge in time to make a break for the apartment, and maybe Bruce’s room if the god gives chase.

Only, when they’ve finished the fun stuff and he’s turning so he can use Loki’s momentum against him, the asshole doesn’t make the lunge. For half a moment Tony thinks that somehow the crazy god knew he’d figured out how to get away, until Loki reaches a searching hand toward him without any hint of aggression.

If Tony was normal, he’d be thrown for a loop by the change in routine (he’s a genius, though, so his brain catches up quickly enough that an observer would never know it fazes him; that’s not to mention that he’s lived with Loki long enough to realize that he lives to break patterns).

“Stark,” Loki murmurs. Fingers brush against Tony’s ribs, and the god uses the contact to find his hand and take it in his own. “Please don’t run from me. I know it is difficult, but you must trust I have a plan beyond the immediate present.”

Loki’s shiver is imperceptible, or at least it would be if not for the fingers laced with his own. His gaze, usually turned up slightly as though the sunlight might someday overcome his blindness, loses the knife-point sharpness and becomes hauntingly vacant.

“There is something out there, in the darkness,” he whispers like he’s half-forgotten he’s even speaking, “and every day it grows closer. It’s coming for this world and every other. I know not when it will arrive—it could be tomorrow, or it could be in a millennia, but it will devour _everything.”_

It’s unnerving, to say the least, considering that Tony’s been fighting off nightmares of the abyss for the past couple nights. “And sitting on my ass is going to somehow change that?”

The loose grip on his wrist tightens. “Meditation is not the end goal. It is but a step towards something far greater—a secret, hidden in plain sight, and spoken so freely that few believe it anymore. I mean to teach you things you cannot yet fathom, Stark, but if I tell you now then you’ll spend the next seven months expounding on the impossibility of them.” Loki sighs. “This is not something like that which you are used to. You cannot sit down one night, skim through a book or two, and have a fair understanding of it. There is nothing to memorize or decipher, only practice. It takes time, and patience, and effort, but it is worth the frustration if you at least give it a chance.”

“Loki, I’m just not hardwired for thi–”

“Sit,” he implores, “and give me a chance to find the method that will work for you. A chance, that’s all I ask for.”

God dammit. Stupid asshole knows how to play him like a fiddle.

When Loki settles on the grass, he really can’t bring himself to leave. After everything they’ve been through over the past months he’s been losing his once-iron resistance to the god’s requests, especially when Loki is like this. Not quite open, necessarily, because especially here around Bruce it’s impossible for him to shed his masks and costumes and let his walls completely fall, but not closed off either. Calm, at least. So he sits across from him, trying to get comfortable and wondering how the hell Loki can willingly hang out outside on the hard ground, and watches the subtle rise and fall of the arc reactor as the god slows his breathing.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs, and Tony does.

“You still remember a bit of Low Asgardian? Or Icelandic, anyway?”

“Somewhat?”

Loki snickers. “Yes, I suppose it helps when you actually have someone to speak it to.”

“I tried, but you were kind of wacky at that point, and then when you weren’t you made fun of me,” he complains with a pout that he knows the god can’t see.

“You’re just easy to harass, halfling,” Loki retorts and rolls his eyes. Before Tony can object to the jab at his height, the god starts talking him through relaxing (which is kind of ironic, considering how jumpy the asshole always is) and controlling his breaths.

Tony tries, he really does. He counts for each inhale and exhale and does everything he’s told, but that only takes up about half a percent of his mind and the rest is free to wander anywhere it likes.

 _“Það er staður í Ásgarðr,”_ Loki begins after a time, his voice soft enough that Tony has to focus to hear it, _“þar sem tré sjálfir eru blúnda með gulli. Það situr á landamærum ríkisins á Gundersheimr og Norn Skóginum. Fáir hafa séð hana. Túninu Kristal, það er kallað…”_

He can’t translate all of it, but he manages to pick out something about the lands of Asgard, a mention of a forest, and other snippets as Loki spins tales of years past in an unearthly tongue. The stories themselves are lost to him, which he hates, because god only knows if he’ll ever get to hear them again. Loki’s not exactly one to openly share his history, especially the time he spent on Asgard. Then again, that’s probably the reason it’s being told, seeing as he can barely understand the premise.

Tony loses track of time, too caught up in the near-iambic rhythm of the foreign words to bother keeping count.

“How the hell do you even do that? I don’t think my mouth can move that way!” he demands to know, when Loki’s stories are over.

The god chuckles good-naturedly and shrugs. “It may not be my first language, seeing as I was raised to know the Allspeak when I first began to talk, but it is the one I prefer and have used for thousands of years. Learning it as a child helped as well. It is hardly an impossible skill for you to acquire, but it will take time.”

“Not gonna lie, it’s kind of badass.”

Loki doesn’t seem to be able to keep a small, pleased smile off his face, and Tony echoes it.

He lifts a hand but thinks better of it, weighing the risk of ruining the quiet respite from the chaos that follows them against the possibility of some small reward.

Tony’s never been good at making the safe bet.

Shifting to his knees so that he’s closer, he raises his hand again and brushes his fingers over Loki’s cheek.

Over the past couple months, the god has stopped flinching away on instinct. It really started after the suicide attempt, if a bit slowly, and Tony is once more humbled (well, as humbled as he can be considering his ego, but still) at the trust Loki has granted him both consciously and subconsciously.

The god still tenses, and for a second Tony thinks he’s going to pull away, but it’s only a few moments before Loki relaxes again and closes his eyes. He tips his head slightly, letting his cheek rest against Tony’s palm, and sighs quietly.

Right. God in a genuinely good mood. That’s rare, but definitely nice.

Tony leans closer, careful not to move too quickly lest he catch Loki by surprise and get punched in the face, so that their noses brush.

“Tonight?”

The god glances up and cocks his head a few degrees, little comprehension on his face.

“Care to elaborate?” he questions.

“May I take you out to dinner tonight? As a date sort of thing?”

Loki sits back with a hint of a frown. He narrows his eyes the tiniest bit like he does when he has to seriously consider.

“Stark, you should know now that I am not an ideal suitor. Destruction follows in my wake, and you play a perilous game that cannot end happily.”

He flashes a cocky smile that he only half-means, both comforted and unnerved by the knowledge that Loki shares his reservations. “You said yourself that I’m gonna die soon. May as well go down in flames.”

*.*.*

Loki wants, and he’s well aware of that fact. It has, however, no sway over how little he likes it. Desire is, as a Midgardian poet puts it, a fire great enough to end the world. He is the one fated to end it, after all.

The slow-moving chill in his veins isn’t hatred, though; if anything, it’s a desire far stronger. It’s the need for companionship, and the touch of another living thing so long denied him. It’s the craving for the relief he finds in this infuriating mortal’s ceaseless chatter, because at least someone is acknowledging him.

He wants to laugh to himself. _At_ himself. Most likely, the only reason he holds any care at all for Stark is that he’s as desperate for attention as a babe left in a cradle for a few moments while its mother fetches a drink. There is no family who will return for him, though. Instead he crawls after a _human,_ of all things, as though he’s a mangy dog too sickly to earn its keep on the hunt.

It’s pathetic.

There’s a light pressure under his chin—not much, really, but insistent despite mortal weakness—and he allows his head to be lifted.

“You’re thinking again,” Stark comments.

He scowls. “Yes, perhaps you should try it sometime.”

The rustle of the dry grass and slight change in air temperature to his left are the only indication that the mortal has moved to sit beside him until a warm hand settles on his back.

“This isn’t easy for me either, you know,” the man says after a time.

“Then why do you continue when it is so obviously a poor idea?”

“Look, man. You say stop, I stop. But until then, I’m gonna keep trying to figure out if there’s any hope left for guys like us to not end up rocking back and forth in a corner muttering about darkness and eldritch horrors, because I think we both know that’s where we’re headed if the universe decides to stop feeling charitable. You’re fucked up, I’m fucked up, and so far being fucked up together hasn’t been quite as awful as being fucked up alone was.”

He bares his teeth at the gnawing need for _more._ Norns, how he wants to claw at the mortal’s chest until he finds that beating heart; how he wants to hold it in his hands and rip the flesh apart until it screams its secrets and confesses how it is possible to hope. He needs warm blood dripping between his fingers to banish the razor-sharp ice that resides somewhere in the chasm his own heart once lived.

Loki needs everything, and nothing.

Once more he wishes that he’d been born a true heir of Asgard, but now that dream too is tainted with the knowledge of Odin’s cruel nature. He hates himself, but can no longer  even imagine an alternate past that could have saved him from this fate.

“I’m just asking you out to dinner, you know,” Stark cuts into his thoughts, “not to marry me or some shit. This isn’t a lifelong commitment.”

The late spring breeze feels cold on his neck. Half of him yearns to pull the mortal close and take up the cloak of warmth and safety offered to him, but he’s not some green colt and knows better than to believe that there’s any lasting truth to that offer. His legs ache and his head feels wrong, and the rest of him demands to run as far and fast away from here as possible.

Stark seems to sense at least some of his reservation. “Think on it, okay? Just let me know.”

Loki gives a curt nod and rubs at his temples as he climbs to his feet a bit less gracefully than normal. Why must he deal with this childish folly? Curse him a thousandfold for wanting to indulge. Has he lost all sense of self-preservation?

Truly, he is a fool.

*

It comes on more quickly this time than he’s used to. He’d felt a chill in his bones whilst he’d been meditating, but ignored it like the idiot he claims that mortal to be. Perhaps he’d thought imagining it didn’t exist would make such a thing true, but if that were the way of Yggdrasil then he’d have been king of Asgard centuries ago with Thor on his knees below him.

One would think, by now, that he would have learned to heed his body’s warnings… but that’s never been his way. The scars on his back prove that he’s always been one to push too far.

Loki prides himself on mastering his body to a degree few others can. From his posture, to his precision in combat, to the fact that he doesn’t so much as bat an eye when red-hot metal sears a brand into his flesh, he has perfected the art of schooling his person into one of complete control. It’s this very skill that means he walks calmly past Banner, closes his door gently, and never lets a noise of discomfort slip past his lips.

He wishes there were a fireplace in his room. Or the mortals were far away so he could go to the one in the main room. Or that this cruel torture would cease. Never before this started has he ever truly understood what ‘cold’ meant, a fact which he can now attribute to his heritage.

Now, he thinks, he has a pretty good idea.

The collar of his shirt seems to grow tighter, strangling him, and Loki almost tears the seam in trying to get it over his head faster. He drags what blankets he can find down from the top shelf in his closet and heaps them on the bed, curling into a ball beneath them in an attempt to preserve body heat. It’s too cold. Always too cold.

A lance of pain shoots through his chest, like an icicle has pierced through the arc reactor  into his heart to bury its freezing shards there for all time. His traitorous mind wishes for somebody to protect him. The great and powerful Loki, once king, reduced to little more than a frightened child; oh, how far he has fallen. The old Loki, the true Loki, would never have needed anyone. He was strong and brave—invincible in his ignorance. Now he misses sorely those warm summer winds that danced with the fountain grass and aster in his mother’s garden while they walked arm-in-arm and spoke of the coming harvest.

Winter comes in a haze, turning the void a white with such intensity that he flinches away on instinct. It’s a blizzard that surrounds and buffets him with stinging crystals on all sides, and it feels like it could drive him mad.

If he weren’t already mad.

Norns, he can’t even think straight enough to know if he’s sane or not.

People tend to say he isn’t.

He thinks.

He can’t really remember. Maybe he’s sane, and it’s everyone else who’s mad.

No, someone is mad enough to curse him with this thing that worms its way uninvited into all the faults in his mental walls, and grins as they shatter under the cold. That laughs cruelly as he writhes, trying to dislodge it from his thoughts, and fumbles at the leather straps on his arm holding his knife in place.

The knife will make this better. It will make him safe, _happy_ again, if only for a few moments. Just a short reprieve, that’s all he needs, and maybe then he can fight back–

Except it’s not enough. He drags it across his flesh a second and third time, but the sting barely registers under the frost that numbs him to reality and traps him in a frozen cage with this _thing._ He can feel it rifling through his thoughts, trying to rearrange them into something different. It shifts his focus, turning his mind to the injustices of his past, and lights a fire there to draw him closer. Anything to escape the ice.

He feels as soon as he edges closer that it’s dangerous, but it’s so tempting. The warmth, the serenity, the oblivion…  but anger is what kindles the flame, and he can feel the rage that stalks around it in wait of its prey.

In wait of him.

Loki knows what this is, because he’s felt it before. Out in the endless abyss, when he was falling, that tuning of his ambitions to something twisted like he’s an arrow to be aimed at will.

Fueled by fear and desperation, he scrabbles back from that tempting fire. He’s not some moth to be wooed in and incinerated, he is _Loki!_

The cold claims him again, and makes him question the worth of resisting. It’s only with half his consciousness that he makes another grab for his blade, but his arms feel like lead.

“Woah,” a voice says, though it sounds like he’s underwater. Under a frozen lake, somehow still liquid in form. The knife slips from his grasp before he can close his fingers around the hilt. He pulls away from a burning touch on his arm with a noise of agony, awareness torn between this maybe-reality and the ice storm of his mind, but realizes belatedly that without the blade he has nothing with which to fight it here.

“Loki–”

He shies away, but an arm catches his waist and pulls him back against a warm body. It’s not until his hands are pulled away that he realizes he’d been clawing at the arc reactor, and he shivers at the cold that seems lodged there.

“Breathe, Loki… c’mon. Just try to breathe.”

Heat radiates from the man, and he at once wants to both crawl into his lap and glean what warmth he can and shove the mortal as far away as possible. Loki knows how to dull this, if he could only find the strength and willpower to crawl a little ways, but he’ll not debase himself that much in front of anyone else. His pride has always been, and will always be, his downfall.

The mortal holds him tightly with one arm while he pulls wool blankets around them, and Loki uses it as a lifeline to focus on the present.

*.*.*

“Was it the cold again?” Tony asks later, when the shivering subsides and his breaths are more even.

Loki nods against his shoulder, and Tony sighs.

“Are you alright?”

Another nod. They sit quietly for a while until Tony pulls away, and comes back a few minutes later with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and cloth bandages. Loki hisses at the sting, but otherwise allows him to take care of the new gashes that litter his hands and sides.

He hadn’t really thought about it until now, because he’d been preoccupied with keeping Loki as grounded as possible, but it’s the first time he’s seen him shirtless since the hospital. Ever, if you’re not counting the bandages and blankets he’d been wrapped in at the time. Tony traces the pale lines on his waist sadly.

“It’s worse than I thought, isn’t it?”

Because he’d never asked, not that Loki would have told him. He’d hoped it was just his arms, a twisted way to keep track of the days out of grief, and tried not to consider the possibility that he was taking more things out on himself than that. Now the scars draw a map of pain over the god’s body for him to read like a book, running up his arms further than he’d expected and over flesh he’d thought was unmarred. It’s a book he was never given permission to see.

Loki’s face burns with shame, as red as the tattered blanket he yanks around his shoulders to hide the proof that he’s been cracking at the seams for a long time now.

“You weren’t supposed to know.”

He brushes a stray lock of hair out of the god’s eyes and tucks it behind his ear. “Can’t help if you don’t tell me things. We’ll figure this out though, okay? I promise. I’m not going to run off just because of a couple scars.”

“A couple?” Loki asks with a surprised laugh. “I may be blind, but I’ve a feeling there are at least a few.”

“Fair point. Still, though… I’m not going to leave; I need you to trust me.”

“I am trying, Stark,” he whispers, and hangs his head. After a few minutes he sighs and curls up on the bed with his head in Tony’s lap, blanket wrapped tightly around himself and looking exhausted. Tony runs his fingers through Loki’s hair, trying to silently calm him.

He doesn’t know how long it is that they stay there for. It’s probably only a few minutes, but the silence stretches them into something that feels a lot longer. If anything, it strengthens his resolve to fix all this shit. The world’s too fucked up to save completely, but maybe, if he’s lucky, he can at least save one person from themselves.

Loki turns his head to look up toward him and gives a slight nod.

“Tonight,” the god says quietly.


	50. Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, hey. Fancy that. There's another chapter.
> 
> It's only been, what, forever and a half?
> 
> *hides in shame*

The first time Tony had taken Pepper out to dinner, he’d flown out to Japan with her and gone to Kitcho. She’d told him more than once that he didn’t have to, and that she’d be fine with somewhere in the city, but Tony Stark settles for nothing less than the best. Especially for the first date he’d had with someone he actually cared about as more than a fun night. He’d worn a suit, she’d had one of the most gorgeous dresses he’s ever seen, and the photo still sits in a frame on his desk back in Malibu.

This time around he finds himself in a grey sweater and slacks. It occurs to him that Loki can’t exactly see what he’s wearing anyway, but it’s still weird. He’s used to dressing to the nines and putting on a show. If he’s completely honest with himself, Loki probably looks better than he does, but half of that is the fact that the guy’s got an eerily good sense of fashion for a blind alien who’s never really studied Earth clothing.

Also unlike Kitcho, he has no idea where he’s going beforehand. Sure, a few restaurants have web presences, but not enough to get a sense of which is the best for a date with the god of chaos. Instead, they wander around Komsomolsk-on-Amur until they find a little hole-in-the-wall place that seems edible.

The food, that is, not the restaurant. Loki has a good laugh at his grammar before Tony drags him inside.

They end up at a small table in the corner, which the light from the small hanging lamps doesn’t quite reach all the way, but even in the dimness Tony can see the dark shadows under Loki’s eyes and the way his posture has fallen. All the same, he does at least have the smallest hint of a smile on his face. Baby steps, right?

“Hey, Loki, you speak Russian, right?”

The god glances up inquisitively. “Yes?”

“What the hell are all these letters and shit?”

“If you are referring to the menu, which I assume you are, then I’m afraid I won’t be much help. If anything, I could much use _you_ reading it to _me_  seeing as I doubt there is a Braille version, and I don’t know the Russian style anyway. And can you please stop speaking English? At least _attempt_ to seem less like a tourist.”

Tony huffs in objection and crosses his arms. “I am so not a tourist. I’ve travelled all over the place, I’m perfectly capable of going to other countries.”

“French, then, since I know you speak it. French is better than American, given current international relations.”

“I dare you to say that to Steve.”

“I have no plans to ever see that overly-patriotic fool of a soldier,” Loki informs him before switching to an almost perfectly-accented French, “and no desire to. The couple times he showed his face while I was bedridden were bad enough.”

He raises an eyebrow and looks up from the nonsensical letters. “Wait, when was that? I thought people generally avoided your room.”

“While you were around, yes, but you did have to leave _sometimes._ I had the misfortune of having visitors even in the few moments I should have been alone. The good Captain two or three times, I believe I may have heard the Widow, although I cannot be sure, and the Director only once. I think I thoroughly discomforted him, because he did not return.”

“Wait, _Fury_ showed?”

At the god’s nod, Tony fumes. “Why that little–”

He’s cut off by the arrival of their waitress, which is probably a good thing considering the string of expletives he’d planned. His French vocabulary may not be quite as strong as his English, but he’s still damn proficient at swearing. When Loki finishes ordering their food, Tony is still glaring out the window like he could set the spitting drizzle on fire with enough focus.

“You dislike him,” Loki notes, apparently feeling his radiating mood. Or maybe it’s the fact that the anger has made him a little quieter than normal while he plans that motherfucker’s death. “Why?”

“He–” Tony bares his teeth at the rain. Belatedly, he realizes that he’s gripping the table a little harder than he meant to. He can’t help it—the knowledge that Fury was so close without him around to step in if things went south sends a belated jolt of fear through his chest and it’s making it hard to breathe right. “He threatened to hurt you.”

Loki raises an eyebrow at his reaction, as though he’s surprised the cause would lead to such an effect. “He had every right to, given my actions.”

“You were already _hurt._ You–” He lowers his voice, and glances sideways to make sure nobody’s in hearing distance. “You tried to kill yourself, you were in a coma for over a month, you were bedridden… I’m pretty against torture already, for reasons I think you can guess, but kicking someone when they’re already down? Hell. Fucking. No. Not over my dead body. _None_ of the Avengers would have done that, not even Clint, but Fury doesn’t know when enough is enough and it pisses me the fuck off.”

The god rests his hand on the table palm-up. Tony sighs and takes it, and Loki squeezes reassuringly. “You need not be concerned for my wellbeing, Stark, I am able to look after myself. He has done me no harm.”

“You were half-dead, he could have–”

“He _didn’t,”_ Loki repeats, looking toward him seriously, “and if he had then it would have been justified. Are you truly so concerned on my behalf?”

His cheeks heat slightly, and he wants to deny it, but Loki won’t interpret it as embarrassment about worrying in general—he’ll take it to mean that Tony doesn’t want to worry about him specifically. So Tony bats the shame away in the knowledge that Loki needs to hear the truth, and rubs the back of the god’s hand with his thumb. “Yeah. I am. I care about you, y’know. Have for a while now.”

Loki looks away, his face as red as Tony’s feels. Well, at least this is awkward for both of them. “You’re an idiot.”

He laughs. “I know.”

The god smiles back—a small one, but a smile nonetheless. After a few moments, he cocks his head. “How long is ‘a while?’”

“Oh, uh… depends on your definition, I guess. I think it was when I started to realize that you actually understand. After the shit I’ve seen… people just think I’m crazy. Pepper included, I think. Not that I really blame her, all things considered, but you’re the first one to know what to do when I freak out.”

“Only because I have the same issues.”

“Exactly. I spent years thinking I was batshit, and then I met you and realized that— well, okay. I’m still batshit. But you’re batshit too.”

Loki’s smile cracks into a grin. “Let’s face it—would you rather us be any other way?”

“Not for a heartbeat,” he admits. “You?”

“I live for chaos, Stark; of course not. Although, I suppose I could live with fewer nightmares.”

“I feel you there, man. I feel you.”

Tony would be hard-pressed to say whether or not he’d do things differently if given the chance. He likes the god, definitely (he’s finally given in and accepted that, hence the date), but the scars, nightmares, and anxiety? They’re hell. He’s sick and tired of being spooked by silence, and darkness like he’s a three-year-old non-genius. It’s not just panic; what he saw out there on the opposite side of the portal well and truly fucked him over. If asked to choose… he’s not sure if he’d honestly take Loki, and if the god had been out there longer than he had, then he probably wouldn’t choose Tony either.

They’re both just making the best out of what’s left, honestly. Trying to duct-tape something back together that can’t be fixed.

He scowls, realizing what a down-turn his thoughts have taken—it seems to be a pattern, lately, and not one he wants to deal with when he’s supposed to be on a first date.

“Okay, so, question time: what the hell do Asgardians do on dates and stuff, or whatever fancy shit you were talking about?”

“Courtship?” Loki asks, unfazed by Tony’s word choice, and takes a delicate sip from his glass of water. Fucking princes and their manners. “Traditionally, I would pursue the woman of my family’s choosing and aim to prove my worth as a provider and protec–”

“Family’s?” he interrupts.

“Yes, family’s. As in parents’. Marriage is a political affair when you hold a position such as mine—a tool to be used. Hence why the Allfather,” he says, with a look that clearly says just what he thinks of the man, “has most likely tried to keep the Odinson from that mortal harlot he’s got such a childish fancy for.”

“Sucks.”

“Such is the way of things, Stark; I was raised never expecting more. As I was _saying,_ were you a lady of Asgard, the courtship would consist primarily of me proving to you that I am a worthy suitor. It becomes a bit problematic in the fact that you are a mortal of lower station to me, who I have no plans to bow before, and that I’ll not chase after a man as if he were a maiden. I’ve yet to discover a suitable workaround to these complications.”

“You ever court anyone besides your ex-wife?”

The god hums in affirmation, continuing the rhythm. “Stark, I have lived for millennia. I _have_ fallen in love in that time, despite what others may think.”

Okay, so Tony knows full well that talking about exes on the first date is generally a bad idea, but they’ve been living together for more than a year now and he’s _curious,_ dammit. He always is with Loki. The guy’s got more stories than even Tony does. “Who was it?”

Loki smiles sadly, and his eyes soften the slightest bit. “His name was Friðþjófr. He worked in the stables—and yes, I realize that is a bit of a cliché on Midgard, but it relatively unheard of on Asgard for a prince to take interest in someone so far below them. His hair was red as flame and he was beautiful, kind, and fearless. We were happy, he and I—not really courting, as we were still young, but very much in love.”

“What happened?”

“Thor,” he replies with a grimace, and Tony probably should have seen that one coming. “He’s always had a nasty habit of barging into my room without knocking.”

“Ooh, shit. Walked in on you two doin’ the dirty?”

Loki rolls his eyes. “More or less. Needless to say, he ran off to tell the Allfather, and Friðþjófr was ‘randomly’ recruited to the army the following fortnight with an immediate opening in the southern training program. I, on the other hand, was thoroughly chastised by both Odin and his fool son, and made to work his place in the stables for a month afterward.”

“What, didn’t chase after him?”

“Stark, I was not raised like you,” he says, a hint of his true age slipping through his expression. “I dared not disobey. Holding a royal title is not something without its weight, and the dishonor my actions would have brought to my family if the word spread was enough to spark serious political issues. The matter was not spoken of again, nor was his name mentioned, until I heard word that the front lines of the fifth battalion were decimated in a raid gone poorly. His body was never found, but the logical assumption was his death.”

“Fuck.” Tony reaches across the table to rest his hand over the god’s. “I’m sorry, Loki.”

Loki turns his over and laces their fingers together. “I loved him, but the time to grieve has passed. He died an honorable death, and there is enough to mourn for as it is.”

The waitress interrupts their conversation with bowls of steaming soup that smell damn good, and the god tucks in almost immediately. Tony holds off, considering the fact that he isn’t that fond of burnt tongues, but judging from the content sigh that comes from across the table the food’s not half bad.

“Norns, I’ve missed decent meals…”

“Hey! What do you call pizza?”

“It would be fine,” Loki retorts, “were it made from edible ingredients instead of the over-processed factory-made nonsense that you keep in your freezer. _This_ is what food should taste like. Fresh-grown, without whatever chemicals you feel necessary to dump over everything.”

He wouldn’t be Tony if he didn’t have a witty retort for the insult to American culture, but—and he’ll never tell the asshole this—he’s secretly happy that he found someplace Loki likes. The guy’s had it rough; the least he can do is find some good food to eat.

Still, he’s not one to be deterred when he has a goal.

“Back to the point, Schlosser: courtship. How the hell does this all work?”

“I am still trying to figure that out, to be truthful. This would be far simpler were you a woman, at least.”

“Don’t have the rack for that; sorry.”

“You are so vulgar,” Loki chides with a face of disgust, although Tony’s heard how he talks half the time and someone’s totally calling the kettle black. “No honorable Asgardian man would ever court another of his sex; as such, the rituals are created to be remarkably gender-specific. I have been trying to work out a more equal variant that would still fit the intent.”

Tony raises an eyebrow at that. “Right, because a place called Ass-guard is _totally_ straight.”

“There are other relationships, you idiot. Of course men fool around. Nothing serious would ever come from it, though, not least because the station difference required to make such an affair at least somewhat feasible immediately discounts marriage of any sort.”

“Station difference?”

“The only men who would willingly submit to another are servants, the conquered enemy who have already lost their honor, or slaves. There is no shame to the dominant party, but they would never wed someone so far beneath them.”

“So why was the Alldaddy so pissed you got it on with a dude, then, if it was normal?”

Tony hardly misses the grimace that crosses Loki’s face. “Always asking questions, Stark—there are some answers you may not wish to hear.”

“See, now you’re just making me _more_ curious, man.”

The asgardian sighs. “The position Thor found us in was rather compromising.”

“But I thought you said it was cool if guys banged servants.”

“It is,” Loki affirms, and looks out across the room. “The issue was more in the fact that the time Thor walked in happened to be the one time I was not lording over my lover. When I say ‘compromising position’ I don’t mean that he walked in on me having sex, Stark—he has a bad habit of barging in unannounced, and that was hardly the first or last time he’s seen me less than clothed in the presence of others.”

He takes a second, smirks as things start to make sense, and then breaks down laughing when the pieces of Loki’s old-fashioned speech form a pretty clear picture in his mind.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he snickers, “Thor walked in on you biting the pillow?"

“By the valkyries of the outer realms, I will hang you from your ankles over boiling grease if you do not cease speaking this instant,” the god hisses as his cheeks flush. “And not exactly, but near enough.”

Tony knows that Loki’s embarrassed, but come on—it’s too funny _not_ to laugh at. Actually, his embarrassment is ninety percent of what’s so hilarious, the other ten being the look that must have been on Thor’s face at the time. “So let me get this straight—you can fuck _me_ as long as I don’t fuck _you.”_

*.*.*

The lingering wisps of shame and mostly-good-natured humor at his own expense burn away as anger flares up in his chest, only adding to the discomfort already lodged there.

“I thought I made it quite clear that if sex is your objective, you need not barter for it with food and false promises, _mortal.”_

Loki’s teeth scrape on his spoon and he scowls all the more for it. He’s told himself repeatedly that the man’s only interest in courtship stems from his reputation of promiscuity, but it’s one thing to think it and another entirely to confront the truth. He should have just bedded the man and gotten it over with, never mentioning this as a possibility.

A hand stays his before he can find the next bite of his meal, the touch gentler than expected.

“Loki.”

“What?” he snaps back, teeth bared.

The mortal only sighs and takes his hand. “That’s not what I meant… I don’t care about that, okay? I mean, I’m a guy, so I kind of care, but not like that. If I wanted a one-night-stand, I wouldn’t take you out to dinner. I’m me; I don’t need shit like this to get people in my bed. You gave me a choice, remember? I chose. No take-backs.”

“Then why don’t I believe you?”

Tony laughs quietly. “Because you wouldn’t be Loki if trust came easily to you. I told you already, though—I don’t want anything from you that you don’t freely give me. You call the shots.”

“That is the exact method I use to manipulate people best, you know. As long as they think things are their idea, they’ll do nearly anything you wish them to.”

“Only because everyone wants to have a little control over their lives. From what I’ve heard, you haven’t gotten much of it, not with the Asgard-assholes and their shit rules. Maybe now’s your chance.”

There’s nothing he wants more right now than to close his eyes and trust Stark entirely. To just act on impulse and leap.

The mortal is right, though—unconditional trust in anyone just isn’t in his nature. He says as much.

“So you let me court you, and I prove that I’m awesome enough to be the first.” Stark has a trademark smile, Loki’s learned, and he can hear it in his voice sometimes when the man speaks.

He sighs in resignation and taps out a beat with his nails on the glass. Stark may claim to be poor with words, but he knows enough about Loki to be able to slip around his safeguards more than most.

“Duality,” he tells the mortal, and goes back to his soup.

It’s hard to say whether soup is more or less difficult to eat than other foods—there’s a fair bit less searching around on his plate for where things are, but it takes a bit more balance and the occasional twitch in his hand likes to upset that.

“Sorry?”

He gives a questioning hum in response.

“Care to give the random word there a bit of context?” Stark prompts, and Loki sits back.

“Asgardian courtship is largely concerned with duality. The idea is to prove that one is able to provide in all situations, not just the good times. Gifts, trials, and ‘dates,’ as you call them, all concern pairs.”

“…trials?”

Oh, the ignorant fool. He can’t help but chuckle.

“Did you honestly believe that _anything_ Asgardian would be without combat? We are creatures of war. If you wish to keep my favor, you must fight to prove yourself worthy of it.”

“And what exactly am I fighting?”

Loki shakes his head. “Once more, our situation makes this difficult. Our parents or families would traditionally be responsible for dictating such things, but…”

“…we don’t have any,” Stark finishes for him.

“Precisely.”

“This is really complicated.”

“Give me a few days and I’ll try to work out something that could suffice,” he requests. “I know this likely seems to be a lot of superfluous nonsense to you.”

Metal clinks against ceramic as the mortal’s spoon dips back into the soup. “But it’s important to you; I get it. Look, man, if you can figure out how to fit that shit into the realm of Earthly possibility, I’ll do it. Just tell me how.”

Being faced with such unwavering determination warms his chest in a far opposite manner than the anger from before, as does the evidence that Stark is serious enough about caring for him that he’ll forfeit a deal of control over the methodology. This time, it’s Loki who reaches across the table in search of the other’s hand, and he smiles when fingers brush his own. He feels a bit ridiculous, like a younger version of himself with less experience in matters such as these, but he wards off the section of his mind that is determined to keep him from enjoying this—the way Stark laughs when he’s amused, the thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand absentmindedly, the odd mix of friendship and the possibility of something more. If there’s one person he never thought he’d care for to any extent, it would be this man… yet here they are. Resolutely ignoring the way his stomach’s been cramping and his chest aches around the arc reactor, he smiles. “I’ve grown irritatingly fond of your particular brand of idiocy when it comes to leaping before you look, Stark.”

“Oh shut up and eat your damn meal; quit it with the weirdly insulting compliments.”

With a chuckle, Loki obliges him.

They eat quietly for a while, just enjoying each other’s company. It’s an odd sort of companionship, one he hasn’t known for years since he fell from Asgard, but he enjoys it. Stark’s company has become relaxing, oddly enough, although certainly not boring. Boredom has always been stressful for him, if he’s honest. He’s much more at ease in the middle of a whirlwind than on peaceful seas.

“So…” the mortal asks after a time, “what was Asgard like? If you don’t mind talking about it, I mean, I don’t want to ruin the mood or anything.”

Loki chuckles at his hurried addendum and shakes his head. “My childhood did have a _few_ good memories, believe it or not, and I do believe you’ve earned the right to ask about my past.” Brushing his hair out of his face, he stares into the emptiness wistfully.

“Asgard was… beautiful,” he admits. “The sort of beauty you notice even growing up there, but is all the more evident when one leaves. The main palace is gold and stone, flanked by rolling hills and white beaches. It was always warm, but never hot or humid—we had our seasons, yes, but they were subtle and to you it would feel like an eternal borderline between spring and summer. The days and nights are longer, as I’ve said, but on cloudless nights there is no light pollution or factory smog to hinder the view. One can see straight out through the winding branches of Yggdrasil—think of the way your kind can see the Milky Way if you’re lucky, but to an extreme degree—and the realms hang in the sky like gemstones."

"Damn."

"You would like it. Sometimes I think that is what I miss the most about my sight—being able to see the stars. They were my constant companions when all else had abandoned me, and now I may well never see them again."

Fabric rustles as the mortal shifts in his seat. "But just think, this way you get to hear my gorgeous voice everyday!"

Stark sounds far too smug for his own good, and were it not poor manners, Loki would throw a fork at him for his insolence. "Oh, joy," he berates instead, "I get to listen to an ape for weeks on end..."

Loki trails off, mind still caught up in the web of memories, and a wave of impulsiveness hits him with all the force of a freight train.

"We should go."

"Huh?"

"You and I," Loki tells him, "we should go."

"…go _where?"_

He smiles, the threads of a plan weaving together in his mind. " Out there, into space, among the stars." Loki paints a picture of darkness and light and glory in his mind, spinning a thousand tales of ages past and future into every word he speaks. "SHIELD can't chase us that far. We could go anywhere. _Everywhere."_

"Woah there, tiger," Tony chuckles in response, sounding equal parts amused and surprised at his enthusiasm. "You might want to remember the part where I don't just keep space shuttles lying around for when I get bored. Don't know if you noticed, but Bruce's place is a little small for that."

"So we build one. Or steal one."

"Don't you think someone will notice if we try to commandeer the massive ship? They'll catch us before we leave the ground."

"Ah, right…" Loki mutters with a scowl. "Primitive species that has just barely managed short-range flight."

"Hey!'

He narrows his eyes and sends the man a pointed look. "Have any of your kind ever actually stepped foot in another galaxy?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Star system?"

"No, but we—"

_"Neighboring planet?"_

Tony huffs like a petulant child. "Okay, fine. I get it."

Loki smiles. “We steal materials, build a ship, and run. As far out into Yggdrasil as we want.”

“Or, like, run out of fuel somewhere between here and Mars. Or spend a couple years getting bored out of our minds before we turn back, because even at light-speed there’s still a lot of _space_ in space.”

Of all the simple-minded— “Stark. You’re speaking to an ancient immortal god who understands the principles of magic and whose people can jump from galaxy to galaxy near-instantaneously via a _rainbow bridge._ Normal mortal logic doesn’t entirely apply. With the right edits your science-fiction warp theory is more than fiction, and while I don’t have intimate knowledge of the Bifrost’s inner workings, I am certainly clever enough to figure out an alternative given a bit of time that could function on similar principles…”

“I dunno, don’t know if I could handle the emptiness after, y’know. Nuke plus portal equals going slightly insane and almost dying.”

He nods understandingly. “I think you’d be surprised, though. Yes, it’s quiet and empty, and it might be a bit much, but all the same… it’s incredible. Being surrounded by everything and nothing at the same time.”

“Maybe someday, when we get back home, we can take a trip out there and see how it goes. Anywhere on Earth you want to go? That might be a little more doable right now.”

It’s a bit hard to think of places, given that it’s been so long since he was last on Midgard. Most of them will have changed drastically since then. Loki flicks through memories and what mentions he’s heard of modern-day attractions, but none of them seem to fit— No. Nevermind.

“I know exactly where.”

“Hmm?”

“I can’t take you to Asgard, not after all that has happened… but I can show you somewhere close.” Loki smiles. “You would be in awe.”

“You’re really serious about this whole ‘let’s go on a random trip’ thing, aren’t you?”

Loki nods.

“Impulsive, much?”

“Perhaps. But after so long being trapped in the city, and now here… freedom would do me good. And you should learn what it is to truly live. You don’t have to worry about your company or being Iron Man right now—why not make the most of it? We have no ties to anywhere.”

Tony laughs—not at him, but in good humor—and sighs. “We’ll see. Crossing borders isn’t the most fun what with your arc reactor and our, um, secret identities, if you catch my drift. But it might be fun.”

He smiles, his mood brightened by the prospect. If he's honest with himself, being on the run like this has only made him feel more trapped and not having a set end goal had been driving him out of his mind. This endless monotony without anything to work towards has left his mind to darker thoughts he's not proud of, because he's in such need of at least some small purpose.

Funny, really. He can't just live to live, like some can—the relic stolen as a means to an end cannot fare without usefulness, despite his craving to liberate himself.

Even if his goal is just the actions of another day, at least it's _something._ He can work with something.

Loki shakes his head, backtracking to their previous conversation, and shifts in his chair in an effort to ease the dull ache in his legs. "I feel I should say—Asgardian courtship demands absolute exclusivity."

"Loki, I'm not going to run off and cheat on you. Pretty sure you know me well enough to realize that," comes the slightly offended reply.

"Perhaps. You have a long-standing reputation, though, and I felt it prudent to make that clear."

"Not going to be a problem, Loki."

"Good." The god leans forward, steepling his fingers, and sighs. “The issue in all of this is primarily in the fact that courtship is traditionally a family affair. As I said, relationships are political in at least some form, as they represent the forming of alliances, so one’s parents would normally dictate the specifics of what is required from the opposite party. That is slightly problematic, seeing as both of us are orphans.”

“Well you’re cheery today.”

He shrugs. “It’s the truth. And normally orphans would go to their extended family or close friends, but we’re both without the former and cut off from the latter…” Loki doesn’t count Bruce as close enough to defer to, and their rather dramatic exodus from the SHIELD base cut them off from communication with the rest.

No. Now that he thinks about it, it didn’t. Stark hadn’t been on fantastic terms with the Avengers anyway—it was the other three he cared for. Pepper, his driver, and his military friend.

Pepper knows where they are and what the circumstances are in regards to their hiding.

A smile spreads across his face. It’s not a perfect solution, but perhaps this can work after all.

“Stark…” he purrs, canting his head coquettishly.

“Oh no,” the mortal tries to stop him, “whatever you’re thinking, I don’t even want to hear it. You’ve got that look on your face that promises something downright evil and I want nothing to do with it.”

“Does Miss Potts know?”

“Know what?”

“About the rather unexpected direction our relationship seems to be turning.”

The realization that dawns in Stark’s voice would be amusing were his words not so typically… him. “What? No, no no no, you are _not_ going to Pepper to ask for my hand in courtship or whatever you’re thinking.”

Loki grins. “Oh, I most certainly am.”

Stark’s speech is slightly muffled, as he’s come to identify as the man either resting his head in his hands or rubbing his face. “I am never going to hear the end of this,” he groans. “I’m never going to hear the end of this, and that’s ninety percent of the reason you’re going to do it.”

“Ah. I see you’re learning.”

“You’re a complete and total asshole.”

“I do try.”

The mortal sighs and he laughs quietly, eating another spoonful of his soup.


	51. Bewilderment

They leave the restaurant late that evening, when night is creeping in and the streetlights have reluctantly flickered back to work until the sun rises again. Loki has one hand wrapped around his right arm just above his elbow, cane in the other, keeping a more careful awareness of his path than he would during the day when Tony can preemptively warn him of anything in his way. Relative darkness evens the playing field between them just a tiny bit. Regardless, there’s a rare but genuine twist of contentment on the god’s lips.

And he’s _laughing._

Tony’s still a little iffy on this whole thing, seeing as there are a million unknowns, not least of which is his own poor track record with commitment, and of course the government agency and possible other planet of warrior gods after them. Although he’s never really let other people tell him what to do… leaving only the other hundreds of thousands of problems. Still. On the off-chance this _does_ work out, Loki’s kind of the catch of the, well, of all time.

They walk the mile or so to the Amur for the hell of it. The sheer difference in atmosphere between the two towns is ridiculous, and Tony’ll be damned if he doesn’t take advantage of the circumstances while he can. Deep blue water tosses the reflection of the moon back, and a few brick apartment buildings frame the view as they walk down to the riverbank. There aren’t too many people around, just a few stragglers, so it’s quiet save for distant footsteps and the gentle ripples.

When they stop near the water’s edge, Loki collapses his telescoping cane in one smooth, practiced movement, and tucks it into his coat pocket with a flourish.

Showoff.

The god crosses his now-free right hand over to take Tony’s arm, leaving his left to follow the line of his shoulder to the back of his neck. Clever fingers card through his hair and Loki bends down, that hint of a smile still on his face, and kisses him softly.

Tony’s first thought is that he’s never kissed anyone like this before. He’s kissed more people than he can count—and he means that entirely literally—but, discounting their first two (rather violent) encounters, kissing Loki is entirely different. There’s no urgency to it, no ulterior motive. It’s not foreplay, or seduction… it’s something entirely its own. A kiss for the sake of a kiss. _Trust._ It’s intimate in a way he’s unfamiliar with and which quite frankly terrifies him. His second thought is to wonder if the god is as unnerved by it as he is.

All the same, it’s kind of incredible.

Loki lingers, even after their lips break contact, close enough that their breaths mingle together. For a few seconds he rests his forehead against Tony’s. Their noses brush, and there’s a brief moment when the air shifts, like Loki’s going to say something, but it passes as quickly as it came and the god straightens again with his free arm around Tony’s shoulder as he gazes out toward the water.

Fucking. _Hell._

In the absolute best way.

No one has, so far as he’s aware, ever so much as considered having a purely romantic relationship with Tony Stark. He knows _he’s_ never considered it to be an option, that’s for sure. Even with Pepper it was at least half lust. Not to say there isn’t any here, but Loki pretty effectively shut that down for the time being. No sex for now, just… courtship. Whatever the hell that means. Commitment scares the ever-living shit out of him, but there’s something to be said for such an utter lack of expectation for anything beyond the present moment. And Loki seems to know what he’s doing, so for now Tony will trust him.

*.*.*

Loki has no idea what he’s doing.

The mortal’s back is warm under his palm—not to the extent of an eldjötnar, but still striking—and the heat seems to linger on his lips as he stares out into the emptiness towards the sounds of the river. He breathes in deeply, relishing the breeze that is far clearer than that of Amursk. Death doesn’t hang in the air here quite so much.

It’s pleasant, this silence. Like someone found the pause button and took mercy enough to grant them this short reprieve. Almost a perfect night out, he thinks to himself, before the near-painful itch up his arm forces him to remember his quiet crimes.

He has always tainted the world around him. Spilled ink onto clean pages, and blood onto clean fields. This time is nothing terribly remarkable, when put into the context of his life.

Loki wraps his arms around Stark, resisting the urge to scratch in the knowledge that the only thing it will do is open the still-healing wounds that line his forearms and not ease the itching at all. It makes him feel dirty. The man is, if not a hero, at least in the business of trying to do good (for a Western Midgardian concept of good). Loki is a selfish, cruel, heartless creature who is most successfully employed by insanity and chaos.

Stark must feel him tense, because he turns in his arms and hugs him back. He forces himself to relax, to brush away the darker thoughts and focus on the present. A slight shift in the tilt of his shoulders is the only indication Loki gives that the arc reactor is causing him pain, but the mortal must notice anyway because he shifts to minimize the pressure he’s putting on Loki’s chest.

The itch doesn’t leave, but he pushes it aside with the resolute determination that has kept him alive all these years through torture, battle, and the void in favor of focusing on the quiet breaths of this tiny, fragile mortal who has somehow managed to captivate a god despite everything.

“What a tiny, improbable little thing you are,” he murmurs.

Stark turns his head and scoffs. “Are you calling me short again?” Loki can’t help but chuckle at the immediately defensive remark. Of _course_ that’s what the man would focus on.

“If I were, it wouldn’t be a lie,” he retorts. If that’s where Stark wishes to take the conversation, then Loki will graciously comply. “The shortest hobbit would still need a microscope to look down and find you.”

“Um, asshole much?”

“Possibly,” he snickers, only to get smacked in the arm.

Quiet settles over them again, and it’s peaceful.

“It’s insane how a couple hours away, it’s like an entirely different river,” the mortal says after a time. “Total one-eighty.”

He hums in agreement, although no doubt the difference is more striking if seen. “Tell me.”

“Hmm?”

“Tell me what it looks like,” Loki prompts. “Describe it.”

The mortal’s head tilts against his shoulder. “It’s pretty. I mean, for _nature,_ anyway, although we both know that inside is better,” he comments, and Loki chuckles. “Back in Amursk the water’s kind of muddy and gross, but it’s blue here.”

“What shade?”

“…blue?”

Loki rolls his eyes and resists the urge to shove Stark into the water. “I am in _awe_ of your vocabulary.”

“Shut up and let me talk, Jar Jar. The water’s really dark blue, and the river’s pretty wide. On the other side are these kind of rolling hills, but they’re sheer and drop off to the bank. There’s a bridge off to the left, and the sky’s mostly dark except for right along the horizon where it’s still golden…”

He closes his eyes and listens without interrupting again, forming an image in his mind of their surroundings. Stark might not be terribly eloquent, but his words are enough to help him see without sight for at least a few moments.

“Is the water still, or does it flow?”

“Um… you ever seen any of Van Gogh’s paintings?   _Starry Night Over the Rhone_ and stuff?”

It takes a few minutes to think back through his memories of Midgardian artists, but he finds the name has meaning after all, and nods.

“It’s like that, the sort of post-impressionist feel with the lights on the bridge reflecting on the ripples. I’d say a… quarter moon? Ish? There are a few stars, more than in the city, but not that many, and a couple little clouds, but otherwise it’s clear.”

Loki hums in acknowledgement, mixing color in his mind to paint the scene. He doesn’t speak for long moments, just stands quietly with a hand on Stark’s back as he thinks.

*.*.*

Nearly five minutes pass like that before the peace is broken and they’re yanked from their reveries by shouted Russian. Loki bristles noticeably beside him, apparently understanding the words, and Tony glances up.

“Do I even want to know?”

“I will kill all of them.”

“Loki…” he begins, voice a clear warning. “Whatever they’re saying, we’re trying to keep under the radar, remember? Killing more people is going to call attention we don’t need. Also, killing is bad, remember?”

The fact that ‘killing is bad’ comes in as the last-minute addendum in his thought process is probably an indication of the fact he’s spent too long with this crazy asshole.

“What are a few more lives? They are scum, anyway.”

“What the fuck are they even saying?”

“Apparently,” Loki replies, “they aren’t fond of the idea that two men are so familiar with each other.”

Oh, right. Russia. Whoops.

“Is there anything in front of me in their direction for the next ten feet?” the god murmurs, anger broiling, and Tony doesn’t dare question him.

“Slight incline a couple feet ahead, but nothing else.”

Loki nods curtly and turns toward the three teens jeering at them while Tony watches warily. The god stalks forward, looking to all the world like something half-feral, and growls something in Russian that he can’t translate. They shout something back, looking like they’re getting ready for a fight, until Loki’s voice drops to the terrifyingly dangerous calm that he hardly ever uses. It makes Tony’s blood run cold just to hear, even though it’s not directed at him and he can’t understand the words—there’s just something _inhuman_ about him, so predatory that his instincts kick in.

Judging from the expressions on the other guys’ faces, it’s at least equally terrifying to them. They turn to run, but Loki manages to catch one by the shirt and beat the everliving shit out of him. The worst thing is that Tony can easily tell that the god is using quite a bit of restraint, and the guy’s going to have one hell of a black eye in the morning if not a few broken bones.

The other two have fled by the time he’s done, apparently not so attached to their cohort as to risk a similar fate.

Loki takes a visible breath, calming himself to the point where he might not murder someone by mistake. With him, it was always a valid concern. After a few moments he turns back, taking a few steps and holding out a hand in the way he did when he lost his bearings and was unsure where someone was. It was really kind of ridiculous that even blinded Loki could fight with terrifying precision, if a bit less skill than sighted—jötunn enhanced hearing apparently was the majority of the reason behind it, along with battle instincts and centuries of practice—but couldn’t find a person who hadn’t moved.

Tony brushed his fingers against the god’s so that he could judge his position, and Loki took his arm gratefully.

“You really can’t go around bashing people’s heads in like that. We’re going to get in trouble if you keep that up—just because we’re not in America doesn’t mean you’re not going to end up with cops on your ass.”

Loki bites his lip and looks sheepish.

“Dude, what did you even say to them? They looked like they were going to piss themselves.”

He earns a shrug in response. “Something involving the exact amount of pressure necessary to crush vertebrae, an approximate estimate of what it would feel like to have one’s eyes clawed out of their skull and teeth extracted, and a threat to pull their spines out of their asses.”

Well fuck. “…and just how much pressure would that be?”

“I have no idea,” Loki replies, nonchalant. “I just made the number up. Were I in actual combat I could apply it, but I know the feel rather than the mathematics for it, especially considering I couldn’t tell enough about them by their voices to give a correct estimate.”

“You are terrifying and awesome at the same time.”

“It’s a gift,” he says with a smirk, and Tony shoves his arm.

Loki bends down and pecks his cheek, and if Tony were the sort of person to blush, he would have. Fortunately, he never really has been. But still. The god just looks smug—no doubt he knew it would be enough to placate him—but it’s the sort of way that’s slightly attractive and actually kind of sweet.

Fucking shit, he’s got a crush.

They walk back to the car together, talking and laughing and generally enjoying just being alive for a little while. Loki seems a bit uncomfortable and grimaces occasionally, but when Tony asks he blames the scars still being tight and the aftereffects of surgery, so he doesn’t press the matter.

*’*’*

Loki has never been the sort of person to kiss on first dates, or second, or even third. To him, it’s a level of affection he’s not easily comfortable with and requires a rare level of trust. So that he finds himself not only not disconcerted by the action but actually deeply _enjoying_ it  is surprising at the very least. Perhaps he owes that to the odd intimacy of his relationship with Stark over the past year, in both a physical and emotional sense, even if it had been platonic. He’s found himself speaking secrets he’s not told anyone before in front of the mortal, and the nights they’ve fallen asleep in the same bed—due to his withdrawal, late nights, or simply because they were too comfortable watching a movie to bother getting up—were always without motive. It has been centuries since he last felt this sort of trust in anyone, let alone a past enemy. Even with Frið he’d almost never woken up by his side, out of the need to keep the level of their relationship quiet.

When they finally get back to Banner’s apartment he finds himself ducking his head once more to press a final chaste kiss to Stark’s lips outside the door of his room. If this relationship continues instead of crumbling like it very likely could, he is certain he would never grow accustomed to the sheer kindness with which Stark kisses, especially considering his reputation as a rather aloof, slightly rough bedmate.

All the same, it feels as though claws are sinking into his muscles and a light sheen of sweat dusts his back. He pulls away reluctantly, because he needs to rest.

Bedclothes are foregone in favor of curling up still in his outfit miserably until he sinks into a blissful haze and finally dozes off like he so badly needed.

*

“Pepper,” Loki greets with a fond smile two days later, having woken sometime hours after he’d fallen asleep and changed into the pyjamas he’s still wearing before chasing respite once more, “it’s been too long.”

“Loki! How are you?”

“I am… as well as could be expected. Still recovering, but doing better than I was.”

“That’s good to hear,” the woman replies, and sounds sincere. “Tony wasn’t the only one worried sick about you.”

Loki ducks his head to hide his shame and embarrassment, but all the same the sentiment warms his heart a bit. She had no reason to care what happened to him, and every cause to want him dead. “My thanks for your concern; I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“Tony explained why you did it, and I understand. You don’t need to apologize for trying to protect yourself. You know we’ll do everything in our power to protect you though, right?”

He nods. “So I’m learning. It’s not something I’ve had in a long time, and will take some getting used to.”

“Where is Tony, anyway? I’m surprised he’s not with you.”

Loki rolls his eyes. “Asleep, finally. He’s cut my satellite link eight times today and it took me half an hour to hack my way back online. It’s three in the morning here.”

It may have taken slightly longer than that in reality—it had taken a half hour the _first_ time—but he’ll not admit to that. Besides, he’s twitchy and sore, and that should be enough of an excuse to make the claim at least somewhat valid.

“Should I even ask why you two are fighting over the sat link?”

With a chuckle, he pulls the blankets around his shoulders and sits back against the pillows on his headboard. “He didn’t want me to call you. It’s a bit of a lengthy story starting with dinner last night.”

“Oh god, do I want to know?” The words are concerned, but her voice is amused.

“Possibly, possibly not.” Loki smirks. “I was wondering, as you have known him longer than I, especially in a different manner considering that you have been his closest friend for years and I was his enemy first, then his—actually, no, I don’t want to think too hard on our past. It’s not exactly something I’m proud of, given the, y’know…” He glances away from where he knows the camera is on the tablet and bites his lip with an uncomfortable laugh. “Being a blind, drug-addicted, suicidal man on the run from the very team of the man you’re hiding with isn’t precisely conducive to what I’d consider an equal relationship.”

There’s a pause, and for a moment Loki fears she’s pitying him, but she breaks him out of his thoughts. “He never saw you as anything less than him, you know.”

“You don’t know the worst of it.”

“I didn’t need to,” Pepper tells him with utter confidence. “I know him. You should see the way he looks at you, Loki—it’s the first time in years his mind isn’t a hundred jumbled pieces, all thinking about entirely different puzzles. When you’re around, it’s like he can get rid of the clutter and actually _focus.”_

Okay. Admittedly, that’s not what he was expecting, and he’s not entirely sure how to respond.

“He does pity about as much as you do, which from what I’ve heard is pretty much not at all. He’s always thought of you as his equal. At Christmas, when you were first going through withdrawal and he was trying to convince me not to call someone, the easiest angle for him to try and take with me would have been the pity route. To try and make you seem like someone he could control,” she says. “Instead, his first instinct was to tell me that you and he were the same. Even then, it didn’t matter to him that you were in a pretty dark place—that’s not how he sees the world. He sees people as the sum of their parts, not just one or two things.”

“Pepper?”

“Yeah?”

Loki levels the tablet with a disapproving look. “I didn’t call for a heart-to-heart.”

In truth, hearing that means a great deal, and it’s information he’ll chew over later. He hadn’t fought the whole day for emotions like these to get in the way, though, so instead he pushes them down and focuses on his intention.

“Of course not,” she laughs. “I’ve figured out by now that you’re not really the type.”

He looks down again, fiddling absentmindedly with the sheets and offering a small smile. “Well, not about that, anyway.”

Pepper hums, pitch lilting up at the end in question.

“The dinner… may have been a date.”

She doesn’t speak again for a couple seconds, and when she does he can hear the grin in the cadence of her voice. “Oh, Loki, that’s wonderful!” The expression seems to falter, and her next words are more serious. “That’s good, right? And I’m assuming the shovel talk speaks for itself?”

“I… don’t know what the talk is; I’m not familiar with the phrase, but yeah. It’s good. Hence why I’m smiling like I’m a good millennium younger than I am. It’s not— I don’t know if it will last. I don’t think either of us are sure where the boundaries of our relationship lie, exactly… We’re still trying to figure that out.”

“The shovel talk is essentially ‘If you hurt him you’re dead, and I’ll bury you so well they’ll never find the body.’”

“Ah. Yes, I’m familiar, although it’s slightly different on Asgard. The general point stands, though, and I have no intention of doing him permanent harm, bodily or otherwise.”

“Is that really what Tony didn’t want you calling me about?”

His smile grows. “I may or may not have implied that I was going to ask you for permission to court him. Asgardian tradition would have one ask their intended’s parents, you see… Neither of us may have parents, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to embarrass him. So, for the sake of his emotional trauma, I have to ask—would you please harass him mercilessly about it?”

She laughs, and he tugs on the blanket that had slipped from his shoulders. “Considering all the work he’s left me with, I think he deserves it.”

Normally it would be good tact not to speak of one’s current relationship with the other’s ex-girlfriend, but Stark and Pepper had seemed to part on good terms and she’d seemed genuinely pleased by the news. “Out of curiosity,” he asks, “as you know him better than I, is he the sort of man to appreciate gifts such as flowers, or would he consider them frivolous?”

Pepper seems to consider for a minute. “I’ve never given him any, but I think he’d like it. He’s never been terribly gifted at romance, but the sentiment behind it he’d be grateful for.”

He nods. “Perhaps I’ll see if I can find a vendor, then. I’d prefer something Asgardian, as I know their meanings better, but I can make do with Midgardian ones for now.”

“He’ll like it. He likes _you,_ which is the real factor, and I don’t think anyone’s really done something like that for him before. I was never really the gift-giving sort in that regard, to be honest.”

“My thanks,” Loki replies, already half lost in thought and half distracted by other matters. “I should likely go—it’s late here.”

“It was good talking to you,” she tells him, and he smiles again.

“And the same to you. Have a pleasant day, Pepper.”

“Goodnight, Loki.”

He ends the call and sets the tablet aside. It’s not long before he nods off, and he hates himself for his poor habits—they’re getting worse, and no doubt Stark will soon start to notice just how much he’s sleeping, but he can’t help himself. He’s tired, more of the too-long days and his mind cutting out with a slightly increased frequency than it usually has over his escape from the Void than actual physical exhaustion. The hopelessness he faces every morning has been getting at him, and the tally count on his arms has increased significantly thanks to missed days sleeping.

Still. At least with Stark he has something to focus on, to work towards. A bit of respite in the seemingly endless dark tunnel his life has become.

 

 


	52. Parchment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as a heads-up, this one could be trigger-y. Not that a lot of them don't, but, as always—warnings/tags apply.

Loki rolls over in bed with a quiet groan at the fact that he’s now aware, and stretches out in the tangle of sheets to ease the traces of heaviness from his limbs. He just wants to go back, to that lingering third-space where he can half-pretend to be safe, but it’s a vicious cycle and he knows it.

Peace is just so hard to come by these days.

A tired brush of fingers over his phone’s cool glass screen tells him the day and time, and there’s a brief moment between when he registers the date and when the world falls out from under him entirely.

It’s all he can do not to scream as he clutches at the blankets. Half of him feels like there’s something tearing his heart from his chest and the other half wants him to do it himself, and this is so, so wrong.

Two years.

There’s escape to be found, he knows, and that’s the worst part. That if he were just a little weaker, he could take back respite and hide from the terrible and terrifying creature that digs its cruel claws in and forces the very air from his lungs. He feels like he’s falling again, through that emptiness, except this time it’s worse.

Nothing is real enough at the same instant that everything is too real, and he can’t catch his breath. Loki curls in on himself, searching for air that’s never enough, and trembling builds from nothing until he can’t shake it. Two years is far too late to panic, to get caught up in this, but he can’t escape it. Nor can he tell whether the unbearable ache in his muscles is from the shivering or his own stupidity, but he lost the ability to tell weeks ago when the two had first overlapped.

He’d kill himself were it not for Stark; he can’t take this. He doesn’t deserve to live.

Not two years later.

Not now.

He doesn’t deserve Stark.

An unbalanced laugh forces its way out, but halfway through his lips it changes to a muffled sob.

Some part of his heart pleads whatever powers still look over him (although the rest thoroughly reminds him that none do) that Stark will seek him out for some reason so that he doesn’t have to face sadistic truth alone, but the larger portion of that accursed organ proves itself right. He’s left alone, too proud to go to the mortal but too weak to pull himself together on his own, and cries silently as fear, grief, and immutable, untameable rage war for dominance in his mind to the drumbeat of his heart.

*’*’*

Loki’s up and vanished again, back to his room to sulk or sleep or whatever the hell it is he does in there. Plan world domination, probably. Who the fuck even knows with that guy.

The past few weeks have gotten worse, he’s noticed—Loki sleeps through more of their morning training than Tony expects, and when he does appear he’s usually groggy. Tony starts running through the steps he’d been taught alone, knowing that it would only piss Loki off if he skipped, and even makes an effort to work on the whole meditation thing. He’s still shit at it, but Loki did help a little.

The god doesn’t show up until that night, after Bruce has gone to bed, at which point Tony finds him rummaging through the cabinets in the kitchen in a pyjama shirt and sweatpants, and generally looking like he’s been run over by a semi-truck. Or three.

Hearing his footsteps, Loki holds up a box. Tony reads off the label printed in green across the front—multigrain crackers—and the god hums noncommittally before putting it back where he’d gotten it from and feeling through the rest of the food kept there.

“Anything in particular you’re looking for?” he asks, and Loki shakes his head.

“Just something vaguely filling and preferably sweet.”

Tony thinks through what he saw Bruce bring back from the most recent shopping trip and starts digging through a different cabinet before affirming that they do, in fact, have maple syrup. He offers to make something to put it on, but Loki cuts him off before two words are out of his mouth.

“You are not going to burn the kitchen down. I can do it myself, just look in the refrigerator and tell me if we have eggs and heavy cream,” he tells him, leaving no room for argument.

Both are there, so he pulls them out and sets them on the counter before hopping up to sit on it himself while Loki rummages through drawers and gathers some stale bread that’s been sitting on the counter a couple days (see, Bruce actually keeps bread where it _should_ go, not in a drawer like Happy the weirdo*)  along with a few other ingredients. The god doesn’t speak while he cooks, just moves half-mechanically around the kitchen, and Tony watches him with mild concern. It's hardly the first time he's seen Loki in a mood, but the pattern has been growing and it makes him nervous. All the same, he waits until the breakfast-for-dinner is finished and Loki has served the french toast looking stuff onto Bruce's chipped plates before he says anything about it.

"You doing alright, Bambi?" he asks cautiously.

The god feels for the small glass bottle of maple syrup and pours it liberally onto his food. “How long have we lived together now, Stark? Surely you have realized that the answer to that question will always be yes.”

Tony sighs. “Yeah, and then five minutes later you’ll do something remarkably stupid that proves you were lying through your teeth.”

“Mm…” Loki hums in uncaring affirmation. “I see you’re learning.”

“So is that a no, you’re not doing alright, then?”

“It’s whatever you want it to be. I care little.”

When Loki sets down the syrup again, he sees the blood on his sleeves and closes his eyes for a moment, then leans forward and catches his wrist gently.

“Don’t—” the god begins, but it’s too late. He’s already pushed the fabric up his arm, baring angry red gashes haphazardly stitched together. Not the neat, even sutures he’s watched Loki sew so many times, but poorly spaced and clumsy.

“What happened?”

With a shaky breath, Loki looks down in shame. When he speaks, his words are haunted. “It was an accident, I didn’t mean to– I was angry. My hand slipped. There was too much blood–”

Loki’s expression shutters, and Tony recognizes the look immediately; it’s on he’s seen a hundred times before, and signals the god shutting down in self-preservation. If Tony doesn’t drag him out of it now, it’ll probably be at least a day before he recovers, if they’re lucky.

So he makes a gamble.

“What were their names?”

Ash grey eyes flick up to his, a question swimming close to the surface, so he clarifies.

“Your sons. What were their names?”

For a moment the god says nothing, and Tony worries he miscalculated—mathematics is one thing, emotion something else entirely—but then he speaks quietly, as if anything louder would break him. “Váli and Narfi.”

He toys with Loki’s fingers and nods in acknowledgement, however little good it may do for the conversation given Loki’s blindness. “What were they like?”

There’s a moment’s pause, and then something in the god’s expression shatters. All the same, there’s a keenness in his voice that Tony hasn’t seen before when he talks.

“They were maybe six years old in your ages, with deep blue eyes and golden hair like their mother’s, but they had my mischief in their blood. Happier children the realms have never before seen and likely never will again—their smiles could brighten even the darkest of nights.” Loki smiles sadly. “When Sigyn and I were yet married, we lived in the palace more often than not, but had a home on Vanaheim as well. It was out in the forest in a little meadow ringed by trees, and during the weeks we spent there I would sometimes take the two of them down to the stream. I’d form tiny dragons and river-horses from the water for them to play the Asgardian equivalent of tag with—when I didn’t play myself—and Sigyn would sit on the riverbank and laugh until we splashed her. Then she’d come in and dunk us underwater in revenge,” he says with a laugh.

“They got your mischief?” Tony prompts, hoping the conversation will carry in the direction it is.

The god nods. “They were too young to safely learn magecraft, but I taught them basic potion-making,” he explains. “I’d make sure their creations wound up the goblets of others—although primarily their uncle and his comrades—or occasionally the water of the public baths. A handful of townspeople had blue hair for a week, Thor’s started growing dainty little flowers, and Volstagg kept finding tiny birds nesting in his beard.”

And there it is—the smile he’d been fishing for. A mile wide and brilliantly white, the good memories outweighing the bad for a few seconds, at least. “That’s it, then,” he says.

“What is?”

“I told you I was going to help you find a better way to cope. You can’t keep doing this, Loki; it’s going to kill you. Literally. I can’t go through that again, okay? I’m going to keep you alive whatever it takes, because things get better, but I need you to work with me. Can you try, at least?”

The god gazes at him. “What would you have me do?”

“You started as a way to remember Váli and Narfi, right?” Tony asks as he rolls his sleeve back down.

Loki nods.

“Then we do something to honor them. You like mischief, they liked mischief… I vote we start pranking Bruce.”

With a hopeless noise he drops his head into his hands. “ It’s more than that, Stark. I’ve been doing it so long… since before any of this started. Since before we met, before my fall. I don’t know how to live without it; I _crave_ the pain. What can you possibly do to satisfy me?”

Tony reaches over the table, leaning on his elbow and stretching to tuck Loki’s bangs behind his ear. “You’re not the only one, Loki. There are a lot of other people who hurt themselves like that, and I know it’s an addiction, but there are tons of people who recover, too. We can find alternatives, or coping strategies, or… whatever. I’ll help you. We’ll try things until something works.”

Loki hums noncommittally and picks at his food with a disinterest that makes Tony think he’s eating more out of habit than any real desire to.

“Alright?”

“You make it sound so simple,” is the reply after long moments. “A habit so ingrained? It will be a long and difficult process to break.”

“Nothing’s simple with you, Loki. Trust me, I’ve figured that out by now.” At the way the god’s shoulders sag, he hurries to finish. “I don’t like simple—it’s boring—I’m just saying that I don’t expect it to be a one-day gig. Or week. Or even month. The question is, do _you_ want to stop?”

Loki runs a hand over his face with a sigh. “I don’t know the answer to that question, Stark.”

“Then we’ll work on it. Together.”

The god falls quiet for a few minutes, seeming to think over what he’s said as he eats half-heartedly. “I miss Asgard,” he eventually admits, his voice just barely above a whisper. “I hate myself for that, but part of me refuses to accept that I can never return.”

“It was your home. Of course you miss it.”

Ceramic scrapes against wood when Loki pushes the plate away, his expression dejected and shutting down again. Tony sets his own breakfast-for-dinner aside and circles around to the other side of the table.

“C’mere,” he tells him, brushing a hand across Loki’s. The god takes it, and he decides that dishes are overrated—he can deal with them in the morning. In the meantime Tony tugs his hand a couple times until he stands, and leads Loki to his room.

The door isn’t hung quite straight, much like the one to Tony's own, and he has to pause and use his shoulder to get it to shut all the way so it will latch. He should really fix them, but he just hasn’t bothered. Loki gives him an odd look at the noise, but otherwise doesn’t give any indication of what he’s thinking.

“Bed is about four and a half feet to your two o’clock, nothing in the way. Gimme just a minute…” He lets go of his hand so he can go dig through the small closet for a moment, and returns while Loki is settling himself crosslegged with his back to the headboard, his boots discarded by the door. “Lean forward a sec?”

Loki complies and Tony wraps a blanket around his shoulders. He turns on quiet music in the background, toes out of his shoes, and changes into pyjamas of his own before climbing onto the bed beside the god and rubbing his back gently. If he wants to talk he’ll listen, but he won’t push either. Sometimes Loki needs a good shove, but this feels like a time when he’ll do better if left to speak on his own.

Tony keeps working down his spine while they sit in relative silence save for the quiet melodies, focusing on the spots on the god’s shoulders and at the base of his spine that Tony’s learned over the months make Loki sigh and finally let go of some of the tension. Five minutes or so pass wordlessly, the god tracing unfamiliar patterns on the sheets, before he finally forms words.

“I’ve never been terribly concerned with friendships,” Loki begins. “I had Thor, and his friends, and a few others who came and went over time. I have always preferred to keep to myself. Large groups for lengths of time… they are exhausting.” Slender fingers follow the mattress searchingly to his leg, and Tony offers his free hand under the assumption that it’s what Loki wants. Apparently his guess is correct, because the god occupies himself with tracing the creases on his palm. “I’m poor at friendship. Acquaintances I can manage, but I am relatively certain that most of the time, the only reason I was included in conversation was because I was royalty or Thor’s brother. I’ve never been the sort to be readily invited along with groups unless the reasoning was political.”

Tony works at a knot just below the base of Loki’s neck, careful not to let his fingers skim too high and risk spooking him, and the god makes a noise of discomfort before relaxing into the touch and continuing.

“I’m… a chronically lonely person, Stark. It’s largely my own fault, but…” He sighs, a tired sound that breaks Tony’s heart. “Asgard was home to me, however poorly I was treated there at times. I knew its faces, could usually find company when necessary, and the palace halls were as familiar to me as the spells I once wove. Here, on Earth?” Loki shakes his head. “Everything is noise and commotion I cannot parse into any reliable structure. It feels like drowning on dry land, even without the burden of knowing I am responsible for what happened to my children. I can’t find solace amongst the madness; there are so few things to hold onto as constants.”

“You’re not alone, Loki. I know I can’t make up for everything you’ve lost, and I’m not going to try, but I’ll be here when you need me.”

A sad smile flickered across the god’s face and he squeezes Tony’s hand briefly in acknowledgement. “I know.”

“Does talking about your kids help?”

He ducks his head. “A bit. I… haven’t tried before. None else know what happened. Here, I have–” Loki leans over to dig through the drawer of the nightstand, and when he sits back up again he holds a familiar piece of parchment—the small scroll Tony had found amongst his limited belongings when the god was unconscious in SHIELD’s medical facility. Loki slips the crimson ribbon off, opening the scroll with great care, and offers it to him.

The parchment is soft in his hands, the edges worn from handling. When he shifts his focus away from the sorrow in Loki’s eyes, he can see why.

Four figures are captured mid-stride in faded ink—a woman with braided hair in the lead, her dress billowing out behind her as she laughs; a curly-haired toddler held on her hip, pointing excitedly to something off-page; a near-identical boy running along beside her, and, being practically dragged along after, hand-in-hand with the child, a much younger Loki looking jokingly annoyed.

“I used to keep it folded in my gaiter,” Loki explains. “It’s all I have left from Asgard besides my boots. I can’t see it, but I still remember…”

Tony is struck by how _normal_ the four of them look. How carefree. The trees sketched in to fill the background are a little different than those on Earth, and the clothing is quite clearly alien, but otherwise they look like any other happy young couple.

“Narfi is the one on Sigyn’s hip, and Váli the one holding my hand.”

“They’re beautiful.”

“Of course they are; they’re my children,” Loki retorts haughtily, but his smile belies his gratefulness for the comment.

He looks down at the drawing, offhandedly wondering if it was Loki or someone else who penned it. “You would be an awesome dad. Just saying. I bet you totally were.”

“There are those who think me soulless. Incapable of love.” The god laughs brokenly. “I love my children more fiercely than most could comprehend. I would slaughter _worlds_ to keep them safe, give myself to the most painful torture for the rest of time without a second thought… When they were taken from me, it was a far deeper wound than anything I saw out in that cursed void.”

Tony pulls him into a gentle hug and cards his fingers through his hair. “I am so sorry, Loki,” he murmurs. “I am so, so sorry.”

They sit without speaking, music still playing softly, and besides it the only sounds are their quiet breaths between the measures.

Somewhere between the sorrow, the heartbreak, and the compassion, Tony realizes.

This is an immortal being in his arms. One who was waging war when the Earth was still flat, before his great great great great grandparents had ever been conceived. Who answers prayers and takes care of his followers. Who commanded fire, and ice, and air, and could snap his spine with no effort at all.

Tony has never been religious—he’s too rational for that—but there comes a point when even he cannot deny that the creature before him, holding him even as he breaks apart with ancient grief, is a god.

And never in his life has Tony felt more humbled and in awe.

“I would do anything to go back. To stop it from ever happening.”

“I know you would. It wasn’t your fault, though; remember that. They can try to tell you that it was, but the only people at fault are the ones who killed them or allowed it to happen. There is no fucking crime in the universe that validates that.”

“It _hurts,”_ Loki whispers against his shoulder. “It’s a physical ache and I want to carve it out of my skin, except I keep trying and I can’t cut deep enough. And I’m so angry, but I can never scream loud enough. Not even what happened in the city before SHIELD captured me was enough; it’s worse than chaos eating away at my bones or gnawing at my chest.”

“Not everything you can fight with a knife,” Tony replies. “Sometimes you have to drop the armor and offer a drink.”

The god lets out a muffled laugh, although it’s coated in grief. “Like your foolish ass during the battle?”

“Pretty much.”

“I threw you out a window,” he points out.

“And then I took you out to dinner on a date. I’m not seeing the end result being too bad here,” Tony retorts with a chuckle. “But seriously, you _aren’t_ alone. I can’t even begin to imagine how you feel right now, but I’m not going to bolt just because things get tough.”

Soft lips brush against his cheek in the barest kiss, and then Loki lowers himself to the bed—still wrapped in the blanket as though it can somehow shield him from the fucked-up world around them—and curls up with his head in Tony’s lap.

He brushes away another tear that’s spilled from the god’s eye and rubs his shoulder, gazing down at him and wondering (not for the first time) how the hell they ended up here. How has Tony Stark, social disaster and general not-great person, become the confidante to an honest-to-god deity?

“Mind if I use your tablet?”

Loki shakes his head minutely, so he stretches as much as he can without jostling the god and manages to just barely reach it. His right hand never leaves Loki for more than a moment at a time, still running along his arm in what comfort he knows how to give. With his left, he leaves the parchment on the nightstand and switches the tablet over to its sighted mode and runs a quick Google search.

There are, according to the search engine, approximately 1,230,000 results, so he chooses a few at random and scrolls through the page to find something reasonably useful.

“Everyone says to use ice,” he informs Loki after a while, sans-context.

The god hums questioningly in response.

“Instead of self-harming. Like, squeezing ice or holding it against your skin so you feel something without hurting yourself. Or would that not be good, considering you don’t have great associations with ice and Jötunheim and stuff?”

Fingers trace the seam of his pyjamas on the outside of his thigh, where the direction inverts. “Ice feels different than jötunn skin, and it’s hardly as though I’d never touched it before I found out my heritage. It wouldn’t be effective, though; I’m largely immune to the temperature. It would have to be far colder than what you could reasonably find here to have any use.”

He keeps reading, scrolling through lists and trying to find ideas that sound like they’d help. Loki’s blindness makes it harder—a lot of them are visual in nature and won’t really be all that useful to a guy who can’t see.

“How about chewing on ginger, or—okay, yeah, don’t hit a table; knowing your freaky god-strength you’d probably break it—snapping a rubber band on your wrist, or taking a hot bath…”

“You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” Loki asks, and Tony hates the surprise in his voice.

“I care about you. And I told you that I’d help you find a better way to handle things, so I am. Will you let me help you?”

“I don’t need help…” the god grumbles, but it sounds like he’s saying it more out of obligation than anything else.

He runs his hand through Loki’s hair and the asgardian sighs, melting into the contact. Tony knows he’s won. Not the whole thing, by any means, but Loki will listen at least. Together they read through lists (well, Tony reads and Loki and his endless pessimism remind him all the ways this will _never_ work) until they have a short list of things that are “only mildly pointless” ideas for things that Loki could do instead of turning a blade on himself. While the god doesn’t seem terribly impressed, it’s a start. It takes a long time, and it’s not until they’ve been through a few dozen things that he finally starts to say anything but a flat-out no, but Tony will take what he can get.

They talk about ways to honor the god’s sons, too, that don’t involve drawing Loki’s blood. Tony hasn’t forgotten the altars he’d kept at his apartment and his room at the tower, and offers to help him put together a smaller version that they can pack up on a moment’s notice if they have to run again. Some of the things the god requests are a bit obscure, but he agrees to do his best to get them. Loki has some damn impressive ideas for pranks, and Tony alternates between surfing the internet for more possibilities and trying to keep Loki’s from getting too out of hand (the one that involves a stick of dynamite and a fluffernutter sandwich he vetoes, because it’s irritatingly difficult to find marshmallow creme in Russia).

Around two, Tony starts yawning. “So… now that we’re courting and all, do I have to like get a bundling board, or are you going to fall asleep here and I have to go take your bed?”

“I’m from a different planet, not the eighteen hundreds,” the god mumbles against his leg, hair falling into his face. “We can sleep in the same bed.”

He rolls his eyes and chuckles. “Yeah, well, right now the only one asleep is my foot; can you get your head off me for a sec?”

With an irritable groan, Loki pushes himself up and Tony pulls the blankets up over himself while the god crawls under them on the other side of the bed, apparently half-asleep. Not that there’s really that much of a ‘side’, considering it’s a twin-size mattress, which means they’re kind of up-close-and-personal no matter how they lay. Loki steals the only pillow before he has a chance to do anything about it, and he doesn’t feel like he should really complain considering the day the god’s had, then realizes that the asshole is probably totally aware of that and doing it just because he knows he can get away with it. Tony sighs, but still doesn’t say anything. Instead he rests his head on his arm, wraps the other over Loki’s waist, and hopes like hell that he doesn’t dream too much. They could both use a good night’s rest.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Bread storage opinions are still Tony’s and not a reflection of the rather less-opinionated author’s
> 
> Loki is making this for dinner, if you’re curious: http://yelenasweets.com/2014/01/03/grenki-russian-french-toast/


	53. Vice

Tony wakes to an empty bed and rumpled sheets, but there’s a bowl of cereal on the nightstand for him—he didn’t even know they _had_ dry cereal, considering that most of the food in the cupboards was Russian stuff he doesn’t recognize—that’s naturally soggy as hell. It’s enough to make him laugh, because it’s just such a Loki thing to do. He eats the bowl of mush anyway.

Within moments of stepping out of his room, shirt only halfway over his head, he’s already being dragged toward the door by an ancient and mighty Norse deity… who’s wearing sweatpants.

That will never not be the most hilarious thing to him, he thinks.

After so many days coming outside alone to run through the steps Loki has taught him, it’s almost weird to have a partner again. All the same, they find their rhythm quickly enough, and he even manages to surprise the god a bit.

Growing up, Tony never would have expected to be fighting with his hands for a living. He’d been the weapons-maker, giving others the tools to blow each other up, but never getting directly involved—now he’s learning a seven-beat Asgardian training drill.

It’s work, and it’s _hard_ —the balance it takes doesn’t come naturally—but Loki reassures him that even he had struggled when he was first learning it.

“Every warrior must fail,” the god tells him, “and fail often. That is the purpose of training; it is a way to do so and learn from one’s mistakes without risking your life for them. Once you have learned your weaknesses here, you can overcome them, and then you practice by rote until the movements become as natural as breathing.”

The thing he’s been finding is that Loki does, in fact, know how to train someone. His original beat ‘em up strategy may have been violent, but it helped, and now? The meditation might actually be even better (not that he’ll ever admit it aloud). His mind is clearer when they run through steps together than the months at the tower, because he can just focus on the movements in a headspace he’d previously only found in his workshop.

He deflects the same move in slow-motion for what must be the fiftieth time in a row and Loki adds in an older one to the routine. It throws him momentarily, having already shifted for the parry they’d been working on, but catches on quickly and changes his stance to a more versatile one.

By the time Loki is satisfied with their morning he’s dripping sweat and his lungs feel like they’re going to demand liberation from his cruel dictatorship, but he’s also smiling like a fool and feeling goddamn accomplished.

They walk back to the apartment together, Tony leading like always.

“I didn’t do it,” Loki mutters about halfway there, looking resigned, and Tony almost misses it.

“Do what?”

“Cut myself,” he responds only slightly less inaudibly. “I wanted to—held the knife to my skin and _longed_ —but I managed to keep from pressing down hard enough to break the flesh.”

Tony smiles and brushes his fingers against Loki’s where they hold his upper arm for guidance. “I’m proud of you. That took a lot more strength than swinging a hammer.”

“I might still do it later; I don’t know yet. It feels so wrong not to…”

When he stops and turns Loki pauses, looking down as though he expects to be chastised. Instead, Tony slips his arms around the god’s waist and hugs him. “It’s going to be hard, and I know that. We can go in baby steps, though—that’s okay—as long as we keep taking steps forward. Slow is alright if that’s what you need.” The quiet beat of Loki’s heart shifts steadily down to its typical (if faster than human) rhythm under the arc reactor. “I’m not saying I like the idea of you hurting yourself today, or ever for that matter, but holding off this morning was still a step and I’m still damn proud.”

After a moment, the god wraps his arms around him in return. Despite the fact that they’re both sweaty and fairly covered in dirt thanks to a couple throws to the ground not long ago, Tony finds that he doesn’t really mind. Especially not when he finds a forehead resting on his shoulder and Loki murmuring a quiet word of thanks against his skin.

Healing isn’t often easy—he can attest to that firsthand—but there’s hope. The tunnel has to end eventually, right?

*

Loki is gone by the time he’s showered and changed into something clean and comfortable, but there’s a note in uneven script on the counter that says he’s gone with Bruce to the clinic today.

Tony decides to get a bit of work done in the meantime. He video conferences with the couple researchers at Stark Industries he trusts, and who he’s been working with since he’d fled the country, to keep things running smoothly at the company over a secure satellite feed that SHIELD can’t trace. Sprawled out on the ragged old sofa that sags a bit in the middle with a cup of questionably stale coffee which smells a bit rusty and is more bitter than even he prefers, Tony offers input on the latest project they’re working on. It’s kind of relaxing, if he’s honest. Sure, he’s falling for a slightly villainous god of chaos and illegally in a foreign country while running from a major government organization, but at least he can run through complex equations with relatively normal people. Well, as normal as anyone who works at Stark Industries is.

He works straight through the day, getting up only to use the bathroom and grab a pear off the counter for a makeshift lunch, and only ends the call when the door creaks open that evening, signalling Bruce and Loki’s return.

“How’d it go?” he calls towards the entryway. “Get shot again?”

Rolling his eyes, Loki circles around the sofa into Tony’s line of sight and feels around for a pillow which is promptly chucked in his general direction. “You are insufferable.”

“Hey, with you it’s a genuine concern– Don’t laugh, Bruce! You’ll encourage him!”

Unfortunately it seems that today isn’t his day, because it doesn’t deter the man in the slightest and he laughs all the way to the kitchen.

Ass.

Loki goes to change, presumably, while Tony finishes up a couple notes on the set of equations he’d been working on. When the god returns in a clean pair of jeans and a charcoal-grey hoodie, he perches on the arm of the couch with a scowl.

“I’m bored.”

Raising an eyebrow is kind of ineffective when it’s aimed at a blind guy, but Tony does it anyway. “You’ve been back all of ten minutes.”

“Yes,” he agrees, “and now I’m bored. Entertain me.”

Tony can’t help but laugh half in amusement and half in disbelief. “What do I look like, your babysitter? Can’t you go find a book or something?”

It earns him a sigh. “The book I’m interested in isn’t available in braille and Jarvis is still working on translating it. You can just put on a movie or something.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll find something to watch…” He scrolls through films on his tablet, looking for something that sounds like it would be interesting to both of them, and the god seems to get fed up with trying to keep his balance on the rickety couch. “What book is it, out of curiosity?”

_”The Adolescence of P-1,”_ Loki replies, apparently giving up entirely on the matter, because he tries to shoo Tony over and lie next to him. It’s less than effective, seeing as the sofa is too shallow for them to both fit comfortably. “Jarvis suggested it, and the premise sounds interesting.”

At the title, Tony lights up. “Dude, that’s like my all-time favorite book. How do we not already have that converted? P-1 is why I started working on Jarvis in the first place.” He manages to get Loki to move so that they’re both leaning against the armrest that’s in less danger of just giving out, the god practically sitting in his lap. It’s a bit awkward to maneuver, but it works.

“You make a rather bony pillow.”

“Shut it, asshole. I’m trying to see if I’ve got…”

Loki hums in question, and shifts to get more comfortable.

“Aha!” He opens the file, getting Loki to hold the tablet since he can just rest it on his legs instead of having to reach around somebody else, leaving Tony to be able to scroll with one hand and wrap his free arm around the god’s waist.

With a smile, Tony zooms in enough that he can see comfortably if he rests his chin on Loki’s shoulder, and reads the long-familiar words.

_“Rich, get Josephson on the phone, tell him to come down here.”_

_“Okay. Hang on a second." Rich finished loading a pack on a 2314 disc file and walked out to the control area.”_

“What are you doing?” Loki interrupts. “And what in the Nine is a 2314 disc file?”

“I’m reading the book, what do you think I’m doing? And the 2314 is old-school disc storage. From, like, half a century ago,” he informs him with a chuckle. “If you think what we have _now_ is behind the times, you should have seen that shit. It was gigantic, and held, what… a couple hundred megabytes of data? I don’t remember the exact amount; I didn’t ever use those specifically, but they weighed a fuckton.”

The god gives him an odd look, but leans his head back and closes his eyes. “You may continue.”

Barely two pages later, Loki demands to know what it means to re-IPL.

“It just means reloading the operating system into the main memory. Kind of like rebooting. Can I read now?”

Somehow the god finds something or another to ask about every few pages, and eventually Tony gives in and runs him through a general history of Earth computing, focusing on the mid-seventies tech in general use at the time. To his surprise, Loki seemed fascinated. He asks a seemingly infinite number of questions, and when Bruce returns to the living room after eating dinner they’re only two chapters into the book.

Bruce doesn’t comment on the fact that the two of them are essentially cuddling, just sits in the armchair with a mug of some steaming drink and asks what they’re talking about before jumping in on the conversation whenever Tony mixes up model numbers or dates. It’s… surprisingly normal. As in normal for normal people, not the weird dynamic that the three of them usually have.

Around chapter six, Tony gives up on getting too far through the book that night. Not that he minds, because Loki is determined to work out the intricacies of how The System’s memory management works, and it’s fun.

“Come to bed with me again?” he asks when the god seems satisfied that he understands the concepts fully, catching him scratching at his arm for the Nth time that night and swatting his hand away so that the healing cuts wouldn’t open again.

In the armchair, Bruce nearly spits out his drink.

“Not like that, Bruce; get your mind out of the gutter. We’re not having sneaky sex at night when you’re lying innocently in the next room. I’m pretty sure the bed would give out if we did much more than literally sleep in it.”

Loki scratches at his leg absentmindedly, having been denied his arm. “I know what you’re trying to do, Stark. You’ll fear I’ll follow through tonight with what I managed to refrain from this morning.”

“Caught red-handed,” he admits. “I just want to help you; you know that by now.”

“I do. I need some time alone tonight, though. If I swear to you that I will not touch my blade tonight unless threatened, will you believe me?”

Tony nods against the god’s shoulder so that he feels the motion. “You keep your word. I know that by now.”

“Then I swear it,” Loki replies as he stands and picks up his cane from where he’d left it beside the couch. “Goodnight, Stark.”

“Night, Loki.”

*

Once the god has retreated to his room, Tony looks over to find Bruce watching him. “What are you smiling at, Jolly Green?”

“You,” he replies, and the slight tilt to the corners of his mouth doesn’t change.

“That’s not reassuring.”

Bruce laughs. “I think this might be the first time in human history anyone has ever said this, but you’re a good influence for him.”

Concerned for the health of his friend, Tony climbs off the sofa and holds a hand to Bruces forehead, checking for a fever.

“I’m serious, Tony. Even just since you’ve been staying here, he’s… I don’t know if I could ever call him _peaceful,_ but he’s definitely more stable. He trusts you, too—the first time someone touched him at the clinic he came about half an inch from breaking their nose, and he acts like somebody is going to jump him at any moment, but he’ll lie on the sofa with you and look completely relaxed. And he’s not the only one. You’re a lot calmer now than you were when I saw you in December.”

“In my defense, I’d just had like twelve near-death experiences thanks to Killian and his goons, and thought I’d let Pepper die. I was kind of having a crisis still.”

“That was part of it, I suppose,” Bruce allows. “How is Pepper, by the way? I haven’t heard from her in a while.”

Tony groans. “She keeps calling me over voice chat. Loki hacked back into the sat signal in the middle of the night even after I tried to cut him off and asked her for permission to date me, since it’s Asgardian custom or whatever, and she has _not let me hear the end of it.”_

He just laughs, the bastard. “Sorry, that’s kind of hilarious. Can’t help it. At least that means he’s probably serious about this, though, if he’s putting the effort in to do things the traditional way. He doesn’t seem like the sort of person who would care about that if it were just some fling.”

As much as he tries to play it off like it doesn’t matter, he’s pretty sure the heat in his cheeks gives him away. “Fuck. Just– Fuck. I’m so screwed, aren’t I?”

“Depends on what you mean, but probably.”

They don’t really have extra pillows or anything on the couch, so there’s nothing to throw, but if there was then Tony totally would have chucked one at him. Ass. Not that Bruce is lying, by any means—Tony’s gotten way too attached to their resident norse whackjob for his own good—but still. It’s the principle of it. Instead he flops down onto the cushions, one arm slung over his face, and groans.

*.*.*

Loki stares down towards his hands, loathing himself now more than ever.

What Stark would think of him if he knew the truth… he shudders at the thought, scratching at his arm absentmindedly. He can keep the oath he made. He won’t turn a blade to his skin tonight, won’t add to the tallies on his arm. But by the Nine, this is so much more of a mistake. As much as he wants to—as much as he knows he _needs_ to—he can’t stop.

Not when he’s finally found solace. No matter how twisted the path to it may be, he doesn’t see a future without.

Norns.

He has doomed himself, but stopping now would be so much worse.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter was short, but I have my reasons…


	54. Monition

He’s felt sick all day.

Well, perhaps not _all_ day, as the morning wasn’t too bad, but certainly for long enough that the book had been a welcome distraction. His bones have ached, and that wretched itch he can’t shake… It’s been getting worse.

Cocooned in blankets, though, curled around his pillow, everything is warm and peaceful and _safe._ Safe even with no one standing guard, and it’s been so long since he could just close his eyes and doze without fearing for his life. Stark and Banner are close enough in the other room that he’s not likely in any danger, but even if they weren’t… for the moment, he can shake the constant unease that has plagued him.

Loki sighs quietly and lets his mind drift thoughtlessly about. It’s freedom, really—the very opposite of the freezing spells he can’t rid himself of. He’ll never reach Valhalla, but he has a little taste of it every few nights and he’s very probably in love.

Sure, the thrice-damned thing is sinking its claws in, but it’s slow and he’s always been good at fighting monsters. It’s a specialty.

Tonight is his, and maybe tomorrow too, and then he’ll give up his contentedness for more work and a bit of food.

It’s all he seems to have, anymore.

*.*.*

“Jarvis, why the hell did you tell Loki you didn’t have that translated?”

“The book is out of print, sir. I’d not yet had time to do so,” the AI responds from his tablet as though it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “I know for a fact we have a digital copy, and it’s not like you’re translating into another language; all you’re doing is displaying a variant font. That’s essentially instantaneous—you’ve been keeping up with his Wikipedia surfing just fine. Besides, if you recommended it, I would think you already had it for him to read.”

“It’s rather curious, isn’t it?” He could swear that he hasn’t written quite that much sarcasm into Jarvis’ tone, but maybe his computer has been taking lessons from Loki.

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t program you to be such an ass, you know. Aren’t you supposed to be helping me? You’re a shit liar, by the way.”

He’s so busy chastising his AI that he doesn’t glance at his bed until he’s already changed into sweatpants and a tank top, and goes to turn down the blankets.

“You were getting dangerously close to becoming invested enough in your work that you would have forgotten food and sleep, and Pepper noted that when she last spoke to Loki that he seemed a bit off,” Jarvis comments while Tony spins between his fingers the flower that had been laying on his pillow.

“You little shit, you set that up.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” is the smug reply.

The rose is fragrantly sweet, and Tony can’t help but smile. He’s oddly touched at the gesture, given that the flora of Asgard is more than likely entirely different from that of Earth, and Loki wouldn’t have known the symbolism of it from childhood like Tony had. Where Loki got a rose he has no idea, but he won’t question it—he appreciates the sentiment and doesn’t want to make such a deal out of it that Loki has second thoughts.

Tony finds a glass in the kitchen that he fills with tap water, and uses it as a makeshift vase on his nightstand. It’s not terribly fancy, but hey—it works, right? He’s not a gardener. Hopefully it won’t wilt before morning.

*

When he powers on his tablet the next morning (the rose is, miraculously, still alive), Tony is most definitely _not_ expecting to learn that Greenwich had learned what an alien attack was like the day prior. New York seems to be a hotspot for supervillains for whatever reason, and most of the big news is from there. Not to say there aren’t villains elsewhere—of course there are—but nothing this big.

Then again, if Thor and a few scientists could take down the threat, it couldn’t have been _too_ bad.

He has half a mind to wander around the streets near their apartment and see if there are any shops around or something interesting, but the memory of the last time he and Loki had walked through the area and he’d ended up _killing_ someone are still a little too fresh in his memory. Not that he hasn’t ever killed people before—even after his Merchant of Death phase he’s had to as Iron Man. The thing about fighting where the stakes are death is that there isn’t room to worry about incapacitating. Sure, that’s preferable, but most of the villains they face are out for blood and sometimes they don’t make it through the fight alive.

The deaths won’t ever stop haunting him; that much he’s certain of. In the grand scheme of things, though, it’s the best he can do. More lives are saved by him fighting than if he were to let the bad guys run wild.

And then there’s Loki.

Arguably the most dangerous and bloodthirsty of anyone he’s faced down, and possibly the least sane (which in his line of work is really saying something), but somehow he’s managed to pull him back from the edge and do right by him.

Who the fuck would have thought?

Said ex-villain is still off doing whatever the hell he does when he vanishes. Could be sleep, could be sacrificing small animals, could be Tetris. Okay, so maybe not Tetris given the whole blind thing, but still. Point is, Loki’s hiding away in his bedroom and Bruce is at the clinic, leaving Tony to mull things over and screw around on his tablet. He seems to be doing that a lot, these days.

Deciding he needs a change of pace, he leaves his tech on the coffee table and rummages through Bruce’s study to find paper that’s bigger than letter-size and some drafting tools. It’s been a while since he’s drawn traditionally, but it’s a nice way to break the monotony and think a little differently. Whenever he got well and truly stuck on a problem back in one of his workshops, he used to go to paper by default and work things through that way—sure, getting perfect circles is a lot easier on a computer, but this is how he learned to work when he was a kid and didn’t have effective graphics programs.

Tony sketches out possible designs on a smaller scrap of paper, working out the basic shapes and scale before spreading out a larger sheet on the kitchen table and slowly planning the facility he and Pepper have been talking about building in Cleveland. It’s hard to work without an undo button (he fucking loves ctrl+z), because honestly he doesn’t completely know what he even wants to do, which makes for a lot of erasing and trying not to rip a hole in the paper by mistake.

It’s almost four in the afternoon when the wind picks up and there’s a crack of thunder in the distance. Tony sighs—rain at the tower always made him melancholy, but here it’s just downright depressing. To combat the no doubt incoming storm he turns on Rush and loses himself in the lyrics. It’s a trip down memory lane, back to high school and hiding homemade earbuds in his hood so that he could drown out the teachers who were years behind him during math classes and work on his own stuff instead… like the roughest sketches of the idea that would some day become Dum-E. They hadn’t been the best years of his life—as the youngest by far in his classes and still the smartest he had been one of the biggest outcasts there—but he’d been a lot more innocent then.

The song ends, shuffle brings up Freewill, and he sings along, figuring that if Loki’s sleeping it’s probably like a log. Sure enough, no trickster shows up to yell at him, so Tony recalculates the dimensions of a room and edits the wall placement. He figures he’ll scan it and send it to Pepper when he’s done so she can give her input and they can get the process jumpstarted.  

Some time later, halfway through one of his favorite guitar riffs in The Spirit of Radio, there’s a knock on the door.

Tony’s wary when he opens it—after all, it’s not like they have an awful lot of friends here, and Bruce shouldn’t be home for at least an hour or two—and is met with a rather uncertain-looking man in a rain-drenched knit sweater.

“…Yeah?”

“Меня зовут Кристен, и у меня есть сообщение для кого?”

The man’s accent is distinctly not Russian, and he stumbles over the words as though they’re as foreign to him as they are to Tony. He can’t place where the guy’s from, but it’s sure as hell not here.

“No fucking clue what you’re saying, man; don’t speak a lick of Russian,” Tony replies, raising an eyebrow, and Wet Sweater visibly relaxes.

“Thank the gods,” he says with an awkward chuckle. “I don’t either.”  English doesn’t seem to sit quite right in his mouth either, but it’s a lot better than the stilted Russian that kinda sounded rehearsed.

“Right. So… planning to tell me why you’re knocking on random doors in Amursk when you definitely aren’t from around here and I’ve never seen you before in my life? At least not that I remember. Unless I was, like, blackout drunk at the time, which I guess is possible.”

Wet Sweater looks vaguely confused, and ignores most of Tony’s tangent. “Are you Lachlan?” he asks instead.

Say what now?

“Um… no. Why do you ask?” The uncertain air returns, and Tony’s growing progressively both wary and curious.

“I have a message for Lachlan; I was told to come to this address. Do you know him?”

He nods slowly as he sizes the man up. Taller than him, slightly, but scrawny enough that Tony could take him if he had to. The real question is why the fuck anyone would come looking for ‘Lachlan’ when he’d only ever been a faceless name to the Avengers and a false ID at the airport. It’s damn suspicious, and he doesn’t like it. “He’s not free right now, but I can pass it along for you.”

For a couple seconds he thinks that the guy’s gonna go for it, but then he seems to steel himself and shakes his head. “I really think I should talk to him myself—it’s important. I can come back?”

“Scale of one to impending apocalypse,” Tony answers skeptically, “just how urgent are we talking here?”

“Eight.” Wet Sweater replies after a bit of thought.

“You armed?”

“Sorry?”

“Armed,” he repeats. “Guns, knives, bazookas… got any on you right now?”

The guy seems thrown enough by the question that Tony decides he’s probably not, so he opens the squeaky door a bit more and steps out of the way. “You can wait in the living room if you want,” he suggests, although it’s more instruction and he’s pretty sure Wet Sweater gets it. “Think he’s asleep. I’ll wake him up; gimme five.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude, but it really is importa–”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Tony says, cutting him off, and shrugs. _”He’s_ the one who’s murderous if he doesn’t get his beauty sleep.”

*

The resident trickster is sleeping quietly in his room as suspected, hugging a pillow with a surprisingly serene look on his face. Tony sits on the bed beside the mountain of blankets that is Loki and runs his hand through the god’s hair, calling to him gently.

“Time to wake up, Loki…”

It takes a few tries but eventually the god turns toward him bleary-eyed, and as soon as recognition of Tony’s voice hits he smiles affectionately.

“Morning, Stark.”

“It’s afternoon, actually, but hey.” His lips curve up into a smile of his own, and he hopes that Loki can at least hear it in his voice. Still carding his fingers through the god’s hair, he sighs quietly. “I’m sorry—I didn’t want to wake you up, but I kind of need you to get dressed and come out to the living room.”

Loki pauses mid-stretch and glances toward him suspiciously. “What is it?”

“I’m not really sure,” he replies honestly. “But there’s currently a guy who has this address and the name ‘Lachlan,’ and apparently a message for you? Dunno. He says it’s urgent and won’t tell me anything else. Said he wanted to talk to you in person.”

With a yawn he finishes stretching and hauls himself up by Tony’s shoulder, nearly sending them both face-first into the mattress with his weight. “Any threat?”

“Nah, don’t think so. Not American, though, and not Russian. Can’t place the accent.”

“This had better be important,” Loki grumbles, trying (and largely failing) to tame his hair by combing his fingers through it. “I’m tired, and if it’s not I very well might accidentally tear out a jugular vein or two. Cane?” He holds a hand out expectantly, and Tony rolls his eyes. Asshole.

More than slightly terrifying, and most definitely an asshole.

Still, he leans over and finds the cane Loki usually uses around the apartment, and nudges the god’s hand to get him to take it. “Anything else you want, princess, or shall I go entertain your guest?”

The sass earns him a smack in his shoulder with Loki’s cane, but it’s worth it for the way Loki’s nose wrinkles in distaste. “I am rather certain we’ve discussed you calling me that, firstly, and second, _I’m_ not the one who let him in—you could have much easier shut the door in his face and been done with it. Fetch me a ceremonial dagger, a crystalline bowl, and some golden cord, peasant.”

“Uh… yeah. Not helping you use Wet Sweater for a ritual sacrifice or whatever you’ve got planned there, buddy,” he refuses, trying not to laugh at Loki’s rather morbid humor.

Loki who, for all intents and purposes, looks remarkably put-out by his answer. “But mortals are so _pretty_ when they’re all trussed up and stained in their own blood,” the god complains with a pout, forcing himself to his feet tiredly and making his way over to his closet to find something besides pyjamas to wear. “But fine. If you’re so put-out by the idea, then I’ll settle for you getting my boots.”

He tries not to pay too much attention to the _actual consideration_ Loki seemed to put into the idea after he’d said it, even if it wasn’t necessarily his original intention. The whackjob’s bad enough when he’s in chaos withdrawal; Tony’s sure as hell not dealing with a deity who turns out to want him exsanguinating virgins or shit for him. Even _he_ has limits. Instead he trudges across the apartment to the front door.

“Sorry,” he tells their guest with an exasperated sigh, holding up the heavy leather boots when he walks back through the living room, “fetching footwear for His Highness. He’s being a royal pain in the ass, as per usual. Give me just a sec.”

When he gets back to Loki’s room, the god is running a brush through his hair without much more success than he had with his fingers earlier.

“Get over here, Radagast the Blind,” Tony chuckles. “You’re just making it worse.”

Loki makes an expression of distaste, but comes over anyway and leans down so that Tony can reach and fix the locks of hair that really don’t want to stay on the right side of his part. In the past few decades, with rather extensive numbers of girls spending the night in his room, he’s not sure he’s ever met someone with quite as awful bedhead as Loki always seems to get. It’s kind of hilarious.

Satisfied that the god’s hair is relatively sorted out, Tony hands him his boots. “Watch the kitchen table when you come out; Bruce moved it a couple inches to the left when he was cleaning last night and I’m not sure I put it back in quite the right place.”

*

Loki takes a good five or ten minutes, by which point Tony’s started to worry that he climbed out the window or something. That would be awkward. When he finally appears, vaguely grumpy with his fingers trailing the wall discreetly at his hip, the god’s movements seem to lag just enough to be noticeable.

For the first time in weeks he’s wearing his glasses indoors, and has his cane folded in the front pocket of his jacket—the path to the couch he knows well enough to walk without it. From the looks of it he’s still not entirely awake, not that Tony really expected him to be. All things considered it usually takes a good hour or two for him to stop moaning like he’s dying in the mornings, so this actually isn’t that bad.

“Who the fuck are you,” Loki growls as he crosses the room, “and why exactly have you felt it necessary to wake me?”

Okay. Maybe a little bad.

Wet Sweater starts apologizing in heavily-accented English, but it doesn’t look like it’s doing much until Loki freezes mid-step a few feet away from the couch, hand half-raised to find its exact position, and cuts him off with a quiet, _“Oh.”_

“Oh?” Tony parrots back in question.

Loki’s entire demeanor changes in the span of a few seconds and he almost seems to soften around the edges. The scowl slowly turns up into what almost looks like a smile, his posture relaxes, and he lets his hand fall to his side as he gazes toward their visitor. “You’re one of ours, aren’t you?” he asks softly.

*.*.*

“I don’t usually do this sort of thing,” the man tells him with an edge of uncertainty in his voice as he settles on the couch beside him, legs tucked underneath himself in a way that would usually have Stark griping about boots on the furniture, but the mortal seems too focused on proceedings to comment. “He was certain it was very important, though, so…”

“Whose message do you carry?” he asks, shifting a bit to face him.

There’s a moment of hesitation, which he doesn’t comment on. “Thor’s.”

Loki sighs. He’d suspected as much as soon as he’d felt the remarkably distinct aura of a worshipper, but had hoped that might be happily disproved. It would seem not. “Of course,” he mumbles to himself. “He could not be bothered to speak with me himself. I really shouldn’t be surprised.”

That wasn’t important, though, at least not at the moment. Regardless of which god or gods the man followed he was still one of the pantheon’s, and Loki would be remiss to take his anger out on someone so precious. The mortal was not to fault for his god’s actions.

“I am Lachlan,” he introduces himself, and offers a hand. “And yourself?”

“Kristen,” the man replies, shaking it.

Loki can’t help but chuckle at that. “How very ironic… English is not your native language, is it, Kristen?”

“No. I’m from Norway.”

“Would you prefer to speak in your tongue, then?” he suggests.

“You speak Norwegian?”

“Engelsk er heller ikke morsmålet mitt.,” Loki replies with a smirk. “Jeg er like komfortabel med å snakke norsk.” His accent isn’t quite right, he knows; just as his English sounds a bit outdated, so does his Norwegian. Such are the issues inherent in learning languages that change so much more rapidly than those of the other realms. All the same, the mortal seems impressed enough.

The other mortal in the room, presumably in the armchair, is less so.

“Do you just speak every fucking language or what?”

He laughs, and looks over his shoulder towards him. “I am well-versed in the Scandinavian tongues as well as English, and taught myself basic Russian when I learned we would be living here for any period of time. I don’t know _every_ language, fool.”

“Sure seems like it,” Stark grumbles, and Loki rolls his eyes.

“Fetch me a mug of tea,” he demands, “and Kristen, would you like something?”

“Whatever you’re having is fine.”

“Stark. Two mugs of tea, preferably _not_ full of the leaves. Off you go.”

The mortal says something unsavory under his breath but heads to the kitchen from the sound of his footsteps, leaving Loki to speak with Kristen. He switches to Norwegian again, given that Stark doesn’t need to know what they’re saying.

“My apologies. Thor has sent you with a message for me?”

“Yes, he has. He… also urged me to bring you these. Since I’m visiting unexpectedly, as a gift.”

There’s a quiet clacking from Kristen’s direction that Loki can’t place. “I’m blind,” he reminds him gently, gesturing at his glasses. “You’ll have to tell me what they are.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. Hold out your hand?” When Loki does, he drops four round, smooth objects still warm from his pocket into his hand, naming each one as he does. “Jet, amethyst, rhodochrosite, citrine. He was very specific, but didn’t tell me what they’re for. You’ll have to interpret yourself.”

Loki can’t really help the way his eyes fall closed and a shiver runs through his body. It’s been over a decade since he worked in direct contact with a devotee rather than via more metaphysical means, and it doesn’t matter that the mortal has no idea that he is a god—the offering, freely given, sends utter bliss thrumming through his veins.

There is nothing, not in any realm or on the furthest branch of Yggdrasil, that compares to genuine worship. It’s a feeling no human will ever so much as begin to comprehend, unique to the gods alone, and his current state helps cancel the dilution given the fact that Kristen is Thor’s and not his.

Whatever the humans may say, however many times they insist that Asgardians are simply more advanced than they, it doesn’t change reality. Yes, their people are indeed more developed—Midgard’s children are little more than toddling babes in comparison to the other realms—but there is an intrinsic connection between humans and their gods that cannot be measured by any instrument, long forgotten by most of the realm as other religions conquered and destroyed the faith in the old ways.

As belief dwindles, so too does the involvement of Asgard. It’s a self-destructive cycle.

The truth, though, is that he is not just a long-lived alien raised amongst superior technology.

These are Loki’s people. He has linked himself to them irrevocably, committed himself to their wellbeing, and loves them in such a profoundly absolute way as only a god can. Those he has chosen are his, to the final beat of their mortal hearts, and he will fight to the death in their protection.

SHIELD, and the people who follow their way of thinking, will always refuse to believe in such a connection because they have never felt it. And through that refusal they guarantee that they never will.

That’s alright.

There are still those on Midgard who know better.

So even though Kristen is not one of _his,_ he will treat him as such for the duration of his stay. His relationship with Thor and Asgard as a whole has nothing to do with the unspoken rule among the pantheon that, so long as it doesn’t endanger one of their own, a god will treat any other’s devotee who falls into their care with the utmost respect and goodwill.

“So Thor sent you, from Norway, with a message…” he muses quietly, almost to himself were it not for the turn of his head toward the mortal. “It must be quite something then. You are sworn to him, I assume, that he asks so much of you?”

Much to Loki’s surprise, Kristen answers in the negative. “Not sworn to anyone. Oaths are serious business, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”

“You’re wise. The gods do not take kindly to those who break their vows.”

The man laughs. “Maybe not so much wise as scared. I trust Thor to the ends of the Earth, and I’ve followed Him for decades, but that much commitment…”

“It’s understandable,” Loki assures him, turning the stones in his hand, “and Thor has never been the sort to fault men for it. He obviously cares for you.”

He’s already worked out the purpose of them. Thor would know full well that they would be granted as an offering and that he had not been given one directly for years, but beyond that, even, there was one common use between all four of the stones. Amongst their various properties they all serve to ward off nightmares, each in its own way.

Of course Thor would have worked that little secret of his out. This is hardly the first time that past events have plagued him in his sleep, and so long ago—in the days  they were still family—his brother had drawn him out and calmed him more than once.

His treacherous heart aches for those times. The Odinson he hates, but the man he once was…

Loki misses his fallen brother.

“You follow Him, right? You speak like you know Him well.”

Memories peek through their prison bars, but he pushes them back. “Thor was once everything to me. I never worshipped him, but he was my closest friend since I was barely able to walk.”

“What happened?” There’s a note of, not pity in the mortal’s voice, but something more akin to concern. Compassion.

Loki closes his eyes, blocking out _rainbow power light ice shattering falling…_ “We had a falling out,” he replies quietly. “One too many, and the damage is the sort that cannot be repaired. I assume that’s why he sent you instead of speaking to me himself—he knows I will never listen if he does. What we had ended in rage and screaming.”

“I’m sorry,” Kristen replies, words equally soft.

“What’s done is done. I assume Thor’s message was not simply a few stones, so please do tell?”

“It’s about Loki, Odin’s brother–” he begins, only to be cut off as the god in question shakes his head.

“The eddas are wrong. His brother’s name is Cul, not Loki. Loki was brother to Thor. _Christians…”_ he sighs, rolling his eyes behind his glasses. “They have no place documenting the old ways. It should have been someone chosen by our gods, not theirs.”

“Sorry, Cul then. And this isn’t… it’s not word for word. Just what I gleaned from the things He showed me and the kind of abstract thoughts He shared. But there’s… chaos coming? Something bad. And the number eight is important, I think, but it was hazy. It’s not going to be for a while still, but Thor felt unsettled.”

He leans forward the slightest amount, with a skeptical tilt to his mouth. “That’s impossible. Cul died millennia ago, long before Thor was even born.”

“Thor seemed to think that he didn’t. He was trapped, but he broke free.”

Loki swears under his breath, slipping into his preferred Asgardian dialect for a few choice words before switching back again. “And what, by the Norns, does he expect me to do? Scowl at Cul disapprovingly?”

There’s a beat before Kristen replies. “I don’t know; He didn’t say. I’m not even sure that _He_ knows, to be honest. He was just really adamant that I tell you.”

Out of all the reasons Loki had thought of for the mortal to have come, a warning had not even made the list. Why would the Odinson bother? Before he can form a response, socked feet pad across the floor in a familiar rhythm.

“One cup of tea for His Majesty, and one for his most honored guest?”

Loki holds a hand out and is handed one of the mugs. "The correct form of address is 'My Prince,' actually."

“Yeah, yeah, whatever asshole. So… what’s the deal with Superman Blue?” Stark asks, and the armchair groans in protest when he sits.

The tea is cooled enough that he doesn’t have to blow on it, so he takes a sip and is pleasantly surprised to find that it’s not completely undrinkable. Not fantastic, by any means, but not awful. The man’s ability is usually rather hit-or-miss. “Naught but bad omens,” he answers, switching back to English. “There are things coming that should not exist.”

That much seems to catch Stark’s attention. “Like, void kind of stuff?” he asks nervously.

“No. Not that bad, but more than Earth’s superheros will be able to handle.”

“What about Thor?”

He shakes his head unhappily and stifles a yawn. “This is a danger even he is unprepared for, I think.”

“Well shit.”

"To put it mildly."

Loki sighs and lets his head fall back against the couch, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. The insufferable mortal—the one he’s had the misfortune to be living with, not the one he has already grown quite fond of—shoves them back off again while grumbling something about putting plates there and poor hygiene. It’s hardly like he’s one to talk, considering how much motor oil seemed to end up all over the penthouse following inventing sprees. “I’m not in the best frame of mind to think this through at present, to be honest. No doubt that oaf of a blond menace expects me to put together some grand plan for him or some such nonsense, and I think he’ll find himself rather disappointed…”

“So, what do we do then?” Stark inquires.

“I just told you, fool—I don’t know. We’ve perhaps burned more bridges than was strictly wise, even if we were unaware at the time, leaving us without allies. I’m not sure this is a fight that _can_ be won, even in optimal circumstances…” He runs a hand through his hair and decides that he needs a long, hot bath. Probably hotter than the old water heaters in the building can manage. “Look at us, Stark; we have no allies in the States. I refuse to be within six thousand miles of Thor, and our absent housemate is more likely to shatter my bones in a fight than our enemies’. In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t heal like I used to. That leaves us two strong. We will _die,_ Stark, before we could so much raise a finger to slow him.”

The idiot of a mortal has the gall to laugh. “Optimistic.”

“Maybe he doesn’t want you to fight,” Kristen offers in Norwegian after a few moments of tense silence, during which period Loki has taken up glaring in Stark’s direction behind his glasses. “Maybe He’s trying to warn you to run. Whatever happened that distanced you from Him, He still cares for you. That was probably the one clear thing in everything He shared with me.”

He just shakes his head. “Nowhere on Earth will we be safe. If the old stories have even a hint of truth to them, then the entire planet is fair game.”

“Then we go off-world,” Stark suggests.

“How? We don’t have technology to reach another civilized planet, nor do I just have a road map lying around to find one, and even if we had both it would be pointless. He may start here, but he’ll continue not just through the Nine Realms but across every inch of Yggdrasil’s branches. Every star in the sky will blink out one by one after your Sol falls to him. There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide… only a fate worse than death to all who fall at his feet.”

There’s a quiet scuff of feet on the carpet before the cushions dip beside him and a warm hand rests on his shoulder.

“Lo–” The man catches himself before the full name passes his lips, backpedalling quickly to cover the mistake. “Lachlan. Take a breath and don’t even _think_ about thinking about what I think you’re thinking of thinking about. Kristen, did Lightning Lad say anything about how long we have?”

“Not directly, but I think a couple months at least.”

“Right. Then we can talk about it tomorrow when we’ve had time to think things over a bit,” Stark offers. “Alright?”

There’s a certain benefit to holding a glass or mug that allows one to speak less, simply by virtue of the fact that it’s difficult to make a point while drinking. Loki uses it to advantage, sipping slowly at the tea while he makes up his mind, and feels for the time on his phone with his free hand. Not particularly late, it would seem, but neither is it early. Stark’s hand falls away when he leans forward to set the mug on the coffee table, so Loki offers his own as he settles back again and nods once in agreement when the mortal takes it. “Alright.”

“You eaten yet, Kristen?”

“I was going to find food when I leave,” Thor’s follower answers.

“I haven’t had anything all day, at least not that I can remember, and I know Trouble here hasn’t,” Stark replies, squeezing his hand gently. “Gotta get something anyway, so you can just grab food here if you want.”

“No, I shouldn’t overstay my welcome after I came without warning, and it’s getting late–”

“Nonsense,” Loki cuts in. “It would be an honor to dine together, although I must apologize as we don’t have what I need to properly cook. Please, do stay?” For all that he enjoys Stark’s company, it’s been hard to be so isolated. Not even so much because of the fact that they are far from a large population, because he still speaks with people at Banner’s makeshift clinic regularly, but because his mind has been too quiet. The soft hum of prayer and devotion that he was so used to feels like it’s being dragged through molasses, and only when he makes a deliberate effort to reach for it. That accursed void… But having Kristen here, there’s a certain aura of faith around the man that warms his veins. It makes him feel guilty, yes, but Loki tries to push away the thoughts he’s had so frequently lately. There’s nothing he can do for it.

He stands, letting go of Stark’s hand to unfold his cane, and tells himself that he’s doing this because he wishes to treat his guest well. That it’s in no way some futile attempt to ease the part of his mind that whispers cruel taunts at him, says _stupid, worthless excuse for a god_ every time he gets too tired or desperate enough to ignore it, by paying it off as treating one worshipper as his own.

It’s not as convincing as he wishes it to be.

*

A little while later Loki is in the kitchen, sauteing vegetables while he waits for the broth on the stove to simmer, when now-familiar scuffing footsteps stop in the doorway and Banner greets him. To his credit, the mortal learned rather quickly how to announce himself such that it wouldn’t surprise him too terribly, and is in general fairly good about offering aid when needed without acting like Loki is completely incapable of independence.

“I didn’t know we were having guests,” he says. “I would have stopped by the store and picked up more food.”

Loki hums in acknowledgement and adds a bit of celery and bay leaf to the pan. “I didn’t know in advance or I would have told you.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Part of him instinctually objects, and he’s rather certain it always will. All the same, a couple years on Midgard have taught him that it’s impossible to never take another’s aid now that he can’t see. “If you could finish this, I’ll get the rest. You’ll likely have a better idea of when it’s properly finished than I.”

“No problem.”

The mortal takes over on the vegetables, leaving him to cut the bread and search through the cold bottles in the refrigerator to see what they have to drink.

“So how do you two know each other?” Banner asks conversationally after a moment or two. “He a friend?”

“I’ve never met him. He knows Thor, though. Do you have any wine?”

“I think someone gave me a bottle a while back, would be in the cabinet to your left if I still have it. Should I be worrying about property damage from Asgardians and/or my alter-ego?”

Loki narrows his eyes, fingers pausing on the uneven paint that has been applied to the wood cabinet doors over the years. “Not unless you treat him poorly, in which case I shall take it personally, and I’d not recommend it. There is a significant difference in the anger of a slighted Asgardian and the wrath of a god on behalf of his faithful. Are we clear?”

There’s a brief pause as the implications presumably sink in, where the only sounds are the simmering of broth and the sizzle of vegetables on the stove.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I forget that there are still people who actually worship you and Thor.”

“I may _look_ human, Banner, but you would do well to remember that I am far from. Sacrifices are made in my name, wars waged for my favor, lives sworn to me… However it appears to the general populace, the ways of the old gods are not dead. The religion has changed and evolved over time, but it is so, so alive. My mind is fundamentally different to that of a mortal’s, and when I was still connected to Yggdrasil… _Norns._ Your body and soul could quite literally not handle the sheer magnitude of that tie. You would burn alive, from the inside out.”

“Right. Yeah…”

The air smells rich as the vegetables cook and hiss in the pan, and it’s just the far end of sweet. “Don’t let those burn or I’ll smite you. It took a lot of work,” Loki warns. And okay, maybe he can’t _actually_ smite anyone without magic, but the threat still gets his point across well enough.

“Can’t have that,” Banner replies with a quiet laugh. “Where do you want these when they’re done?”

“In the broth, if you will.” He pulls a bowl from the cabinet to put the slices of bread in, and turns back to the soup as the mortal pours in the vegetables. There’s still tension between them, no doubt, but working in the clinic has forced them to learn to be civil. The spices he figures out by smell and guesses the proper amounts off past experience. In the past year he’s cooked the soup enough that it’s nothing difficult, and he’s gotten fairly good at making it. It’s nearly turned into a bit of a comfort food to him.

Finally satisfied, Loki pulls down enough bowls for the four of them and spoons to match, and finds his way to the dining area by the cautious touch of his free hand to set the table.  He calls Stark and Kristen to the table as he returns to the kitchen, drawing them out of what seems to be rather awkward attempts at small talk from the sounds of it, and brings the soup back out while Banner carries the bread.

“Aww, somebody actually decided to cook instead of reheating everyone else’s leftovers when they aren’t looking. I’m touched,” the pathetic excuse for a mortal he’s living with teases, but wood scrapes against the floor as he pushes the chair beside him out for Loki.

He mumbles something about Stark being insufferable but sits anyway.

They eat, for the most part, in a friendly quiet broken up at times by bits of conversation about how things are going at the clinic or questions about Kristen’s livelihood and family. Loki’s eyelids still feel heavy and he wants to rest, but he forces himself to stay awake for his guest.

None of them speak of Thor’s warning. He’s glad.

“Lachlan?” Stark calls, poking him in the shoulder suddenly enough that he jumps.

“What?”

“You kind of zoned out there, buddy. You alright?”

Loki nods, shaking off the sleepy daze as best he can. “Fine, yes. Apologies. What were you saying?”

“I was asking if you were done or if you wanted more soup.”

“Ah. No, I think I’ll pass, thank you. Are the rest of you done? I’ll clean up–”

“Bruce can get it,” Stark says, cutting him off. “Right, Bruce? I think Taka here might be better off going to bed…”

“I’m fine to stay up for a while longer,” he insists, not terribly fond of being told what to do.

“Dude, you look like you’re about to pass out face-first in your bowl.”

With a sigh Loki acquiesces, although in truth he’s not entirely opposed to having an excuse to crawl back under his blankets. There _is_ the problem of Kristen, though, given that Loki doesn’t feel fond of the idea of kicking him out after how far he’s come.

“You can have my bed for the night,” he offers. “I don’t mind taking the couch and it would save you the cost of a room. I’ll change the sheets and tidy up.”

“Really, you’ve done so much already. I couldn’t ask for that.”

Loki chuckles as he stands. “You didn’t; I am the one requesting you stay. I’ve not had guests in quite some time, and it’s truly not a hassle.”

“I don’t know…”

“Please? I quite enjoy your company, despite appearances given my state of unrest.” He smiles kindly and Kristen takes the offer with much spoken gratitude.

In truth, his room is already clean. Except for the bedsheets there’s nothing out of place, since he prefers a neat space that’s easier to navigate, but there is evidence of failings here that he’d not like Kristen to stumble across. Loki stashes them away in the backs of drawers under piles of clothes, trusting the man’s integrity enough to believe he won’t go snooping through his things and find them. He remakes his bed with clean sheets and takes a blanket from the closet for himself before returning and giving his guest directions to his quarters.

“Night, Loki,” Stark says quietly to his left once Kristen is out of earshot, and rests a hand on his arm.

“Are you going to sleep now as well?”

“Figured I might as well, since everyone else is.” There’s a brief pause that feels like a hesitation before the mortal speaks again. “Are you doing alright?”

He shrugs noncommittally. “What makes you think I’m not?”

“You just… Something feels off. You don’t quite seem like yourself, but I can’t place what it is.”

Loki turns and reaches toward him, fingers trailing up Stark’s arm to his shoulder. “I’m trying to handle it,” he tells him softly. “It’ll be okay.”

The mortal steps into Loki’s arms, embracing him in turn as he rests his cheek against Loki’s chest. “You know by now that I worry about you. Just take care of yourself, alright?”

He turns his eyes away and pulls Stark closer for a brief moment. “Rest well,” Loki says, dropping a kiss in his hair.

If only he could fill the mortal’s request.

*

Dusk fades to darkness in the starless sky outside their windows, and the couple fans scattered around to keep the apartment cooler during the summer whir in the otherwise quiet living room. The aroma of their supper has faded, leaving just the hints of old wood and musty walls in its wake, but it’s so customary at this point that none of the residents notice anymore.

“Loki?” a voice asks, just barely more than a whisper. “You awake?”

“Not entirely,” he replies sleepily, pulling the blanket down enough to uncover his head.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you, it’s just–…”

Loki hums in question as he glances in the man’s direction.

“Can’t sleep. Keep having nightmares and shit; you know how it is. Mind if I stay out here tonight?”

“You know you are always welcome,” he answers. “There’s not much room, though.”

“Bruce has got another sofa in his office—I could pull it out here and shove them together or something. I just really need to clear my head, and the isolation’s fucking with my mind in the other room.”

When he nods the mortal’s footsteps recede, only to return a little while later accompanied by the scrape of wood on the floor. The couch he’s lying on shifts a little when the other is pushed against it, and then the padding feet leave once more before coming back to dump a pile of sheets and blankets on the end of the makeshift bed, half on top of his legs.

The cushions dip a bit as the man climbs over the back of the sofa. “C’mere?” he asks, and Loki sits up so that he can turn and move beside him, perpendicular to the couch instead of across it. He can’t really stretch his legs out like this, but it’s more comfortable with the slope of the furniture than trying to lie next to each other with the possibility of falling through the gap between the two.

Soon enough they’re both curled up in what could arguably be considered a nest of blankets, legs twined together and holding each other close enough that the mortal’s body heat warms him. He’s shaky, though, Loki notices almost immediately, and his heartbeat is still too quick. The dreams were not mild, then, he guesses from past experience.

“You’re safe here,” Loki murmurs against his neck. “It’s going to be alright… I’ll protect you, you who have earned the respect and favor of a god. Gods do not forsake those they care for. Whatever may yet come we will face together, and that which has passed can no longer do you harm.”

“Sorry…” he whispers. “Sorry I’m such a mess.”

“Aren’t we both? I’m not letting you lie here out of pity; you know full well that I don’t do things I don’t want to. This is no hardship. You are not the only one who sleeps better when not alone.”

"Oh yeah?" The mortal laughs, a bit pinched, but a hint of his normal cheekiness in the undertones. "Then maybe we should sneak into each other's rooms more often. Imagine the scandal."

Loki smiles and tilts his head down to brush his lips against Stark’s cheek, running a hand down the man’s back as he gently pulls him closer. "The Avengers would be quite appalled."

"Oh come on, I know you. That only makes you want to do it more." He settles into his arms a bit more at the touch, tucking his head against Loki's chest, and Loki runs fingers through his hair.

“Perhaps.”

If he knew a way to ease the tension that sits so heavy in the mortal’s chest he would do it in a heartbeat, but he’s had enough nightmares to know that there are some only time can soothe. It’s a bit of a trick to reach behind himself, but he pulls out a couple of the stones from under his pillow (he can’t tell which is which, hasn’t had them long enough to learn them by feel and weight) and slips them into the hand currently trailing absentmindedly across his ribs.

“What are–?” Stark asks, his head tilting upward.

Loki closes the man’s fingers around them. “They help with nightmares. Not spellcraft, really… just the magic that weaves through the universe. It’s too long an explanation to speak of now, but have faith that I speak truthfully.”

“I know you won’t lie to me,” comes a murmur that makes him shake his head.

“You hold a great deal of trust in a traitor and turncoat, you know. There are many who would call you a fool.”

“Yeah? Well, you seem to be first in line, and second, and so forth considering how much you love to remind me of that particular fact. ‘sides—over a year of honesty’s got to be some sort of record with you, huh?”

His lips quirk up into a brief smile and he traces a protective rune on Stark’s back deliberately enough that the mortal will know what he’s doing without words being exchanged. “And you are in a committed relationship without any promise of sex in the near future. Funny, isn’t it?”

“Think I’ve got a bit of a thing for gorgeous aliens who like to break my jaw and strangle me,” Stark answers, and Loki can feel his smile against his skin. “Probably a bit unhealthy, but you kiss like a wildfire and fight like you’re dancing. How could I resist?”

“Look at me, Stark,” he whispers, tilting the man’s head up with a finger under his chin.

It knocks him a little off-balance, and he catches himself on the bed and adjusts to compensate for the change now that he’s not lying completely against Loki, but he does as requested.

Being able to see again… it would be infinitely meaningful to know the face of the man he embraces with such care to make sure he is never too rough and does harm to him by mistake. Instead Loki follows the angle of the mortal’s goatee with a featherlight touch, letting his fingers wander back up his jaw just as delicately. It’s not the same, not at all, but it’s intimate and makes him yearn for something he can’t quite place. He follows his cheekbones, traces his brow, and pretends to himself that he can form something concrete from the gestures.

Stark doesn’t move, just lets him skim the pads of his fingers along the nape of his neck. As well-trained as he is at reading braille he still can’t match the abstract understanding to the near-forgotten memories of the men he fought years ago. The battle feels like a blur of anger, fear, and desperation as things fell apart and built back up, then fell apart again—the people were insignificant. The only face he remembers is the Odinson’s, as he realized that there was nothing left of his brother there. It’s seared into his mind like a brand, constantly reminding him that he has no family. No home. Nowhere to turn for aid when danger lurks just beyond the horizon.

But that’s not of consequence, not now. Now the two of them are wrapped in the blanket of night, suspended in that time when soft words can slip past reservations and the pull of the moon hides fears in the tide of quiet.

“Come here,” Loki breathes, guiding him closer with the hand still resting on the back of his neck.

Their noses brush and he closes his eyes, allowing himself a brief moment of respite from the fear and guilt that plague him constantly now. It will end soon enough, yes, and things will rush back to as they were before, but perhaps that’s exactly why it warms his cracked heart as much as it does. More often than not, it’s those who are the most chronically sad who treat its absence so preciously. They know it won’t last, but while it does they appreciate it more than the satisfied ever can. Sorrow defines happiness, just as death defines life. Without one, the other has no meaning.

They don’t kiss; they don’t need to. Just lying here, finding a little peace in the pain, is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fucking Tenth Realm is messing with my two-year-old plot outline. Dammit Loki.  
> (But she's freaking gorgeous so I forgive her because hot damn, girl.)
> 
> Endless thanks to [MiraEris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraEris/) for correcting Google's awful attempt at translation when it came to the Norwegian.


	55. Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It lives.

Tony wakes to the steady rise and fall of Loki’s chest. The god’s arms are still around him, one hand idly tracing the curve of his spine, and if not for the fact that he looks better rested Tony would wonder if he’d slept at all. Their blankets are in a slight state of disarray, but not too terribly. Nothing unexpected for two people sleeping on a couch way too small for them. If he discounts how stiff his neck is then it’s actually pretty comfortable, and he lets his eyes fall closed for a few moments longer in Loki’s embrace.

Almost an hour later he finds himself waking again, not sure when he’d fallen asleep, lying a bit more on top of his couchmate with their hands intertwined in such a way that he must have initiated it. He can’t quite recall when that happened, but he doesn’t mind. Their mismatched sheets and blankets surround them, and the morning sun casts golden rays through the window that make the god’s already peacefully dozing face all the more picturesque.

And fuck, does he look like a god. The setting’s not particularly grand or anything, but something about the way Loki’s eyes slowly drift open and turn toward him is absolutely breathtaking. Maybe it’s the contentment, or maybe the trust, but mornings are one of the few times that Tony can get a glimpse of who Loki might have been before he was broken beyond repair.

The god yawns, making him yawn in return, and Tony smiles up at him. “Hey, gorgeous,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Loki’s temple. “How’d you sleep?”

It takes a little while for Loki to process and form a reply, sleep still calling him toward her sweet embrace. “Better for having you here,” he admits with more honesty than expected. “I’m tempted to say that you should have nightmares more often, but I feel that would be slightly cruel.”

“A bit, yeah. You _do_ realize you could just ask to sleep together, right?”

“Now where would the fun be in that?”

Half of Tony wants to just whack the asshole upside the head on principle, but he refrains and leans down to kiss him instead. “You’re impossible,” he chuckles, resting his forehead against Loki’s.

“And _you_ have morning breath.” The god pushes him away and wrinkles his nose, eyes turning toward him in disdain. “Did something die in your mouth last night, or do all humans taste so wretched after a few hours’ sleep?”

“Right, because you’re one to talk, mister eating-rats-in-the-sewer.”

“It was an abandoned subway tunnel, and I didn’t actually eat any rats you imbecile,” Loki answers with a long-suffering sigh. “Go brush your teeth.”

Well, yeah, he _could_ do that…

Or he could breathe right in Loki’s face and laugh.

“Holy fuck, Loki! Killing is bad! Killing is bad! Where the fuck did you even have that?”

The blade is cold against his throat, so he’s guessing probably not on his person. Under his pillow, or between the couch cushions maybe? Who the fuck even knows with that asshole.

“Don’t try my patience, mortal. I will smite you and eat your heart,” Loki growls, pinning him to the couch. The speed in which he’d flipped them is a little scary.

Tony just raises an eyebrow at him and smirks. “Kinky.”

“Get a stick of gum or something, Stark. For the Norns’ sake…” the god replies, seeming altogether unimpressed by the remark, which is really just rude.

A retort has halfway formed on his tongue when he catches movement in his peripheral and turns to see Kristen in the door from the hallway, looking equal parts surprised and uncomfortable.

“I’d say that this isn’t what it looks like,” Tony admits, “but honestly I can’t even begin to guess how we look right now.”

Knife to his neck, straddled by a blind guy who’s totally capable of crazy eyes, and still in his pyjamas? Not to mention that they’re both tangled up in the same blankets and it’s pretty obvious that it’s not a recent development. He should probably be more surprised about it, but shit like this happens to him way too often.

Loki looks over toward their guest sheepishly, although the blade doesn’t stray from its position so much as a centimeter. “Well. This is awkward.”

Kristen doesn’t seem to know what to make of the picture but visibly tries to recover, coughing and offering a polite apology before trying to return to their temporary guest room. Before he can make his exit, though, the god stops him.

“If you don’t mind, could you go to the kitchen and look on the counter to the left of the sink? There should be a glass bowl beside the toaster full of candies; I just need one.”

“Of course,” he agrees, with one last odd look before heading across the living room.

“So…” Tony tries, “any plans to not kill me in the next five minutes?”

The answering laugh is enough of an indication that he shuts up.

A minute or two later, Kristen returns and hands off what Loki had requested. The god tears open the wrapper with his teeth (because, of course, using his hands would mean moving the knife somewhere less lethal, and he couldn’t possibly have that), and Tony nearly chokes as a peppermint is shoved rather unceremoniously into his mouth.

Sure, Loki is blind and can’t tell, but he glares indignantly anyway while the god climbs off the sofa and tucks the knife into his waistband with a completely unnecessary flourish.

It takes Tony a bit longer to extricate himself from the tangle of fabric, and he nearly falls headfirst when the cushion he steps on dips further than expected. Stupid, useless old couch. Stupid Loki.

On the other hand, this is the first morning in a while that he’s gotten up and not felt exhausted. Not wanted to go back to bed and say fuck everything. Sure, the sofa wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, and the nightmares that had chased him there were fucking awful, but drifting off curled against Loki and waking up in his arms was… really nice. It’s something that never happened with his endless strings of one-night stands (when he’d make sure to be out of the room hours before morning), or even with Pepper, because she was always up earlier than him. There’s just something about Loki that feels inherently safe. Sure, he was supervillain extraordinaire or whatever, but when he’s calm? The god is gorgeous.

Fuck.

He is so totally fucked.

Loki’s already started the coffee machine by the time Tony reaches the kitchen, and has moved on to making tea for himself and Kristen (after a less-than-subtle jab at Tony’s taste in tar-black coffee and the fact that it’s completely undrinkable). He digs through the cabinets in the meantime in an attempt to find something for breakfast, and ends up deciding that cereal’s the easiest thing.

“I don’t mean to ask if it’s not wanted, and you by no means have to answer,” Kristen says quietly to Tony while he’s setting red ceramic bowls on the table, “but are you two–?”

“Are we…?”

“Together,” he clarifies, confirming Tony’s assumption with a punctuating glance toward Loki where the god is pouring their drinks.

Tony shrugs. “Hey, Earl Grey,” he calls, “are we boyfriends?”

“In your dialect, I suppose so,” Loki replies with a raised eyebrow at the question. “I think I’d prefer to be called suitors, though, given the cultural connotations. Why do you ask?”

“I think the fact that we were sleeping together gave it away. Given, you know, the general lack of that in typical platonic dude relationships.”

“All things considered, we’ve been doing that occasionally for much longer than any romantic involvement between us,” he notes with a chuckle. “Since you still had a, what was it? Girlfriend-y thing?”

“Oh shut up, ass.”

“Never.” Loki feels for the table with his foot and sets their drinks down in the general vicinity of their places before sitting down himself. “Kristen, how long have you planned to stay in Russia? It would be an honor to show you the finer points, although it may take a bit of driving on Stark’s part given Amursk’s current state. You are welcome to stay here as long as you like.”

Their visitor shakes his head and blows on his drink for a moment to cool it. “I’m taking break time from work. I need to get back for tomorrow; I have a ticket back later today.”

As much as Tony is relieved—this has been kind of awkward on his end, and he _really_ needs to have a chat with Loki about last night’s news—the god’s smile falls and he feels a little bad. Loki’s had a total of zero people besides him and Bruce to keep him company. Sure, Pepper talks to him sometimes after she talks to Tony on video chat, and there are the people at the clinic, but when it comes down to it he’s just got Tony. And yeah, Tony’s ego is the size of the Andromeda galaxy and then some, but even he realizes that one person isn’t really enough to consider a decent social life.

Plus, this guy is part of Loki’s world in a way he can’t imagine. He’s still struggling with the whole alien-vs.-god debate in his mind, but Kristen? Kristen is willing to waltz across the continent on a moment’s notice for a deity he believes in entirely. It almost makes him jealous.

Except Loki deserves that sort of thing, even if he might not think so. The Asgardian has gotten nothing but shitty lots in life, and was kind of torn away from this side of his lifestyle thanks to whatever ripped his magic away and limited his ‘reach,’ as he calls it. Whether or not Tony understands it, he gets that it’s a pretty big part of him, so he shoves down the jealousy and feels a bit sorry that Loki can’t have a bit more of that sort of worship.

“Of course…” the god murmurs, sipping at his tea. He says nothing for a minute or so, eyes fixed blankly somewhere on the far wall, only glancing up again when Tony sucks come coffee down the wrong way and starts coughing uncontrollably.

Once his hacking has died down and he sounds a bit less like he’s dying a rather painful death, Loki’s eyes wander back in Kristen’s direction. “Have you had any contact with Thor since you came? Or has he been attending to things elsewhere?”

“He’s been around on and off. I’m not one to judge the habits of the gods, but when He’s here, He’s… preoccupied, I think. Why?”

“If you wouldn’t mind telling him that I’ll consider his words, I would appreciate it. I make no promises that I can be of aid, but I acknowledge his efforts.”

Kristen nods, which Tony relays quietly to the god out of habit. They fall into conversation that’s mostly small talk, although he doesn’t miss the way Loki tends to subtly steer it towards Asgard whenever the opportunity arises. Halfway through a story about their visitor’s family, though, Kristen pauses and looks at Loki curiously. “Does the phrase _‘stormurinn verður okkar’_ mean anything to you?”

Loki freezes with his mug halfway to his lips.

“Lok– Lachlan?” Tony asks, trying to figure out just what could cause the mess of emotions teeming in the god’s eyes.

“It’s…” He sighs, still looking thrown for a loop. “It’s from when we were very young children,” Loki explains softly. “During the war. It was the first time in centuries that the fighting was on our soil rather than in the lands of our enemies, and we were scared—too young to fight or defend ourselves if we were put in danger, but old enough to know what was happening. Thor used to tell me that when the explosions got close to our defenses, when I was afraid, and swear to protect me.”

There’s more to it than that, Tony thinks, but doesn’t push with Kristen here. For the time being he seems not to have made the jump that “we” is a Thor-and-Loki we, not a random-group-of-kids we, which—considering Loki doesn’t seem to have any intention of revealing his true identity—is probably for the best.

“So Thor’s not sitting this one out, then?” he asks, instead of the questions he really wants the answers to but aren’t particularly suited to their company.

“Not from the sounds of it. Although if he expects me to work with him he is sorely mistaken.” Loki drops his head into his hands and sighs, posture tense. “Will he never learn that I have cut my ties? I have no desire for his aid.”

“I mean, if what you were saying is true and this guy is gonna destroy the universe, I’m not that surprised that big, blond, and sparky wants to stop him. Not saying he’s got any right to get involved with your business, because honestly he doesn’t, but when we thought we were gonna lose you?” Tony tells him, voice growing gentler in apology for bringing that particular part of Loki’s past up. “Thor was terrified. Like, frozen-in-place terrified. I’ve never seen him like that before. Not saying that he should start sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, but he cares about you even knowing who your dad was, and if he’s willing to help us save the world? I’m not sure that’s entirely a bad thing.”

The god casts him a sidelong glance, and he looks… tired. “Stark, you were there the last time he and I spoke. You saw firsthand how quickly my already limited mental stability was shattered; I can’t risk going through that again.”

“Then we keep you two separated. I’m not saying it’s an optimal solution here, but we from the sounds of it we don’t exactly _have_ an optimal solution.”

“I’ll think about it,” Loki concedes wearily, “but I make no promises.”

It’s a start, he guesses. Not a guarantee, especially coming from him, but better than an outright no. Kristen’s presence was definitely hindering a lot of the conversation that would need to be had and he had half a mind to herd the guy out at the next available opportunity, but Loki obviously enjoyed having him around.

The conversation swings away from Thor and the looming threat in a way that’s a pretty obvious diversion, but Tony doesn’t call attention to it. There’s a talk coming soon enough that’s not going to be pleasant, so might as well let Loki have a bit of companionship for now and worry about things then. It’s not like a few hours are going to make a difference at this point.

*.*.*

Kristen leaves just after noon to catch his flight, much to his disappointment. Ignoring the warnings he had brought with him, it had been remarkably nice to spend time with someone who was familiar with such a meaningful part of his existence.

Naturally, that doesn’t last long.

Stark finds him a little while later while his fingers skim across his tablet screen, reading about the attack during the Convergence. There aren’t many useful details on any news sites, but skimming through social media gives him enough description to work out that it had been Malekith and the dark elves from old legends and bedtime tales. The sofa cushions dip beside him and the tablet is tugged from his hands, which earns Stark a scathing glare.

“I was _trying_ to check my email, you currish lout!”

“Ooh, ouch,” the man retorts, no small amount of sarcasm in his voice. “We’re back to Shakespeare. Seriously though, who even emails you? No offence or anything, but I mean, you’re not exactly the most popular guy on Earth at the moment. Do you just, like, read badly written junk emails about enlarging your di–”

Loki finds the infuriating mortal’s mouth and clamps a hand over it. “I do actually have an online presence, thank you. I keep up with a few technology journals, and believe it or not I had a job before you so rudely kidnapped me which I’m still consulting for, so I get plenty of emai– Did you just _lick_ me?” Muffled laughter comes from behind his fingers so he pulls his hand away and smacks Stark on the back of the head before wiping it off on his pants. “You are a child, I swear to the Norns.”

“Yep, you caught me. I’m actually a five-year-old on stilts masquerading as a multi-billionaire inventor because you’re too blind to notice.”

He smacks Stark again. “I loathe your very existence.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m a horrible mortal idiot and you are a great and mighty god who is so _very_ merciful in deigning to speak with me. I’ve heard the spiel. Like, seven million times, and I get the point. Am ignoring it, yeah, but I get it. Anyway. About this whole end-of-the-world thing. Mind giving me the uncensored rundown now?”

With a sigh, Loki drops back against the cushions. “His name is Cul, also known as the Serpent. Blood brother to Odin. Whereas Thor is the god of thunder, and I of chaos, Cul is god of fear. He is remarkably powerful, more so even than Odin, and the more who fear him the stronger he becomes." It’s a vicious cycle that he’s a bit envious of, in his own twisted way, because that sort of loop means that Cul can become arguably invincible so long as his presence is known. It’s less fantastic to be on the opposing side of, though. "He hails from cycles ago, when the Earth was known as Aesheim, and his imprisonment prevents his reincarnation. I don't know much else, to be honest; Odin rarely spoke of him. Bedtime tales of his fall, nothing more—the rest of Asgard doesn't even know he exists."

"Damn."

"Yes, you could say so, but you're missing a slightly important detail."

The mortal hums questioningly, so he continues.

"SHIELD, the Avengers... they never pieced it together. Thor, though? Thor knows."

A moment passes, presumably wherein Stark is trying to figure out what could have possibly flown over his head when he wasn't looking. He comes up with nothing.

"Who did Kristen ask to see when he showed up at the door?" Loki asks pointedly, nudging him in the right direction.

"Lachla–" He pauses and Loki wishes that he could see the look of dawning realization on his face. "Oh. Oh, shit."

"He may be an utter moron, but Thor has never been stupid. I don’t know what he picked up on, but he made the connection between myself and the faceless comrade you have been fighting alongside.”

“Wait, are you sure, though? He could have been looking for the other presumably not-traitorous guy in the suit to warn him about impending doom. I mean, he said ‘Loki, Odin’s brother,’ and you assumed the Odin’s brother part. What if he _was_ actually talking about you?”

Loki shakes his head. “I considered it very briefly, but there were too many tells. The stones, for one, and the fact that he has no reason to warn anyone about me. They already know. Besides, a faceless Midgardian would have no reason to recognize the phrase Kristen spoke this morn.”

“Oh, right. Big bro message. You think he’s gonna tell?”

He considers for a moment, weighing the benefits and consequences in his mind from Thor’s point of view. “No. He has no reason to, at least not for the time being. If we show up for a fight, perhaps, but even then… I doubt it.”  Speaking of his once-brother feels less painful for the time being. Most likely that was due to the extended presence of one of his worshippers, and the warmth of that connection bled over and contradicted the ice-cold eyes he remembered so clearly from his punishing. That would fade soon enough, no doubt. “Thor knows our exact location, Stark; think about that. The cloaking spells I had cast upon myself before I fell encouraged Heimdall’s gaze away from me in such a way that he would not recognize anything as being wrong, but as long as he keeps his eyes on me or knows my location he can see everything. Even this.”

“Creepy,” the mortal comments, and the arm around Loki’s shoulders shifts a bit. “Hey there, oh mighty celestial voyeur. I _really_ hope you didn’t look too hard at my bedroom for the past couple decades, for your own sanity. I mean, seriously. You really don’t want to keep too close an eye on the shit I get up to. Nasty as fuck. Really nasty fucking, actually, if you want to be blunt.”

It’s all he can do not to dump the fool on the floor, but Loki’s composure is nothing if not legendary. “Please stop while you’re only mostly behind, Stark,” he chastises, rolling his eyes. “My point is that if he wanted to move against us, he would have already done it.”

“So, good news then!”

“A tiny bit good. Emphasis on the fact that by tiny I mean _submicroscopic,_ ” Loki retorts scathingly.

“Then I’ll build you a better microscope.”

“Touché.”

The mortal straightens, taking his arm from around his shoulders so that he doesn’t have to lean at a weird angle, and the optimistic lilt disintegrates into the cold, hard realism that Loki has come to appreciate. Not that he isn’t grateful for a bit of optimism every once in awhile, but the fact that Stark can see things as they are is refreshing and a bit of a relief.

“So. Let’s talk strategy.”

“Run for our lives and try to not die for as long as possible, whilst trying to accept the fact that our end is inevitable?” he suggests dismally, only to earn an elbow in his ribs that makes him wince as bone grinds against metal.

“I meant fighting strategy; quit trying to deflect. You're saying that the Avengers won't be enough, but there are other superheroes scattered around the globe that don't have any ties to Fury. What if we got them in on it? We've got my research division behind us, too. Like I said a while ago, most of the real heavy-hitters when it comes to innovation are loyal to me before SHIELD.  If there's a way to counter his fear-god thing, we're the ones who can figure it out."

The god runs a hand through his hair and closes his eyes. "Stark. I am loathe to be the one who must disillusion you, but even your most advanced technology is centuries behind Asgard's own. We've long since abandoned electricity for dark energy, and while there is technically a biological and cosmic explanation for how magic works, it is so far beyond what you know that you cannot understand it in such terms as are held by human languages. Cul deals in godhood and the remnants of ages long dead. You cannot defeat him."

"Stop being so damn defeatist, Loki. Even if there's a zero percent chance of survival—which you seem pretty much certain of—shouldn't we at least go down fighting? If I really can't build something, we can try to turn his own stuff back on him like we did with you and the tesseract."

Loki laughs in disdain. “Yes, let’s. The two of us, who suffer from bouts of panic so strong that we forget where we are and what year it is, shall turn the power of fear back on its god. This is a _fantastic_ plan and I can’t imagine what could possibly go wrong.”

“I’m not saying we’re one-hundred-percent guaranteed to win,” Stark says, voice sharp. He must be pulling his feet up under himself from the way the cushions shift. “I’m not even saying we’ve got a one percent chance, because obviously I don’t have any good data to judge from here. But what I _am_ saying is that what does trying hurt? If we’re going to die either way, then there is no reason for us not to make it as difficult for this bastard as possible. And then, from there, what’s our best way to be a giant thorn in your creepy uncle’s side?”

How does one fight a story? Stories change, and grow, and spread of their own accord, and there’s no way to stop one, is there? To keep it from being told? The gods are just stories, in the end. Find how to kill one, and you can kill both in one fell swoop. But the thing is, even if you stop spreading a story yourself, there are thousands more who will keep doing so. Just like ideas, stories and gods cannot be killed. Could they be altered?

He tries to put that concept into words but it becomes clear quite quickly that Stark doesn’t completely understand.

“How the fuck do you ‘alter’ a god?” he demands, throwing an arm over the back of the couch.

Loki shrugs in return, but he’s trying to work it out himself. “We need more information. The whole story, as it were, instead of bits and pieces of bedtime tales. We need to know the bigger picture here, and what threads make up the tapestry if we care to tug at any to begin with.”

“Would there be any pieces of that on Earth?”

“No,” he replies, “it’s been too long. Mortals are rarely if ever reincarnated, and from what little I know Aesheim was quite thoroughly destroyed that cycle. If there’s anything left of that besides in Odin’s hazy memory it would be elsewhere in the realms, and I don’t know which. Memories from those pasts are finicky things, even for those of us who have been a part of the cycle from the very beginning. If I’d known the Convergence was coming we might have made use of it, but it’s too late for that now. The realms have fallen back out of alignment.”

Stark falls silent for a minute, drumming his fingers on the cushion. “Can we realign them?”

“The realms?” Loki replies, laughing in surprised disdain. “Stark, this isn’t like stacking scrap metal in your workshop. It would be even more impossible than dragging the mountains of Midgard into a straight line with nothing but your bare hands. This isn’t even trying to change the orbit of planets, this is moving entire realms through the branches of Yggdrasil. Even if you _could_ do it, you would cause a catastrophic amount of damage.”

“How do you counter fear?” the mortal mumbles under his breath in frustration. “What helps with that sort of thing?”

“Deep breaths?” Loki suggests sarcastically.

“You’re real damn willing to just roll over and die, aren’t you?”

“Been trying for years,” he points out darkly. “Maybe this time it will actually stick.” He deserves death now more than ever. It would be a mercy, even if the fallout for the rest of the realms would be unfortunate. Why can’t the fool just learn his place in the universe? They’re all doomed no matter what they do. It’s not worth the effort of fighting. Plus it would rid him of this thing chewing at his ribs, scraping its claws against the casing of the arc reactor until it’s all Loki can do not to just try clawing back until he gets it out. It’s better than the cold spells, but not by much.

“God _dammit,_ Loki! I’m trying to help you!”

Loki just smiles cruelly, all sharp teeth and bitterness as he pulls away from the mortal and rises to his feet. “Go fuck yourself, Stark. I don’t want your help.” He jerks his hand away when Stark tries to grab for it and stalks toward his room with one hand raised slightly to feel for the wall. It would have been a fine plan if the shapeshifting beast hadn’t moved the table yesterday. His thigh catches its corner and Loki swears in Asgardian as he catches himself and reorients.

Let the whole damn tree go up in flames. Let it live up to the name of Mother Ash.

At least this time it won’t be him lighting the kindling.

When the door to his bedroom closes behind him he lets himself drop heavily onto his bed, only to stifle a cry of pain. He sucks in short, shallow breaths feeling like the wind has been knocked out of him from the inadvised jostling of the reactor. How long has it been since it had been forced into his chest without his permission? Shouldn’t it have stopped hurting so badly by now? Or maybe it’s the medication. He knows it has a slew of side effects but there’s no way of knowing how his decidedly inhuman body reacts to it long-term.

It’s hard to say how long he lies there among the rumpled sheets, curled in on himself in pain and misery. Time seemed to have lost its meaning weeks ago. What use was there keeping track of it when the only schedules he had were those of pain and frustration? At some point he might have fallen asleep, though it’s hard to say, because he’s just as worn down as ever when there’s a knock on his door and he vaguely notices the heat of afternoon sunlight across his cheek and shoulder.

“Loki?” The voice isn’t Stark’s, it’s the smoother tone of Banner’s, which throws him a bit. Banner generally avoids his room and isn’t terribly sociable when he’s around.

Still, he drags himself to his feet with a grimace and runs a hand through his hair to tame it a bit, finding his way to the door and opening it enough to hear better. “Yes?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you…” Banner trails off uncertainly, apparently having expected to find him more alert, but the nervous hesitancy that used to weave through his voice when Loki and Stark had first arrived isn’t terribly prominent anymore. There’s certainly a healthy apprehension of the fact that Loki is a dangerous man, but less abject fear.

“I assume you had a purpose?”

Banner seems to remember himself. “Yeah. Tony’s going to build a nest if he surrounds himself with any more paper. He’s been scribbling notes everywhere for at least an hour now and I was hoping you could get him to at least stop blocking the kitchen. He’s completely ignoring me.”

“I thought you said he was supposed to be my keeper, not the other way around,” Loki points out drily. “I don’t remember signing up to babysit.”

“You’re in a relationship with him. It’s pretty much the same thing.”

“Touché.”

He reaches for his cane but only finds empty space by the wall he usually keeps it, remembering too late that he’d left it in the living room. With a sigh he trudges through the door and closes it behind him. This time around he’s careful to sidestep the table and stops when he hears a telltale rustle of paper.

“What in the Nine are you doing?” Loki asks in Stark’s general direction with a tired sigh. “Banner says he needs to get into the kitchen and apparently I’m your acting mother now. Move your damn work so I can go back to sleep.”

When he gets no reply besides a grunt he swipes a foot in front of him and sends paper scattering across the floor.

“Hey! I was using that!”

“Yes, and now you’re not. Get out of the way; I’m exhausted.”

There’s a pause, and Stark seems to fully shake himself out of whatever work-induced obsession he’d been in. “Yeah, man, you look like shit. Are you doing okay?”

Loki shrugs noncommittally.

“Are you at least less pissy than before?”

He sighs and turns to go back to his room, shaking his head. “I’m just not feeling well, Stark. Keep your things out of the walkway. Some more time to myself would do wonders for both my physical and mental well-being, and then perhaps if you wish to talk about the future or lack thereof I’ll be in a better mood to discuss it. Can you fetch me my cane from by the sofa, please?”

Papers rustle again, though this time it’s louder and he can hear the mortal’s nails scrape the hardwood lightly when he presumably tries to pick up the resulting stack. Loki holds out his hand and Stark retrieves the cane for him, pressing it into his palm and resting a warm hand on his back.

“Whatever happens,” the familiar voice says softly, “win or lose, live or die… just remember that you’re not alone, alright?”

Something wells up in his chest and he’s not sure how much of it is warmth and how much is shame, so he nods curtly and steps away. Stark doesn’t follow him, which he appreciates, but as he sinks down onto the floor beside his bed he can’t help but wish that the mortal didn’t care as much as he did. It would make all of this so much easier if they were nothing to each other besides reluctant associates.

By the Norns, he needs another dose of painkillers. When was the last time he’d had any? Not today, certainly, nor the night before when Kristen had been there. It must have been at least two days ago, then. No wonder the pleasant quiet is giving way to ever-growing pain and an empty numbness everywhere that pain hasn’t spread.

He shouldn’t be so weak, to need mortal medicines for so long. Maybe Stark was right all those months ago.

Loki reaches for his backpack, feeling around for the smaller bag he’d hastily shoved into it last night so that Kristen wouldn’t stumble across it by mistake. The contents spill out across the floor when he fumbles opening it and he curses under his breath.

Whatever he tries to tell himself, it’s all lies. He’s not strong enough to keep fighting and he knows it. Loki sits with the syringe clenched in his fist and stares forward into the emptiness, trying to convince the doubt in his mind that he has this under control on his own. That he’s strong enough.

It doesn’t work.

Instinct tells him to reach for the blade in his boot and drown out his thoughts with pain the way it’s so easy to do. His fingers close slowly around the hilt and he pulls it from its hidden sheath, weighing the knife against the alternative and laughing to himself at how little he’s changed in the end. He’s no less broken than he ever was. Still just a monster runt waiting to die in the cold.

That’s the thought that finally drives him to his feet, slashing a quick but shallow line across his palm and slipping the blade back to its place as he feels for the door handle with the now-bloody hand. The pain is just enough to focus on that he can keep his mind from straying too far toward consequences. Finally his fingers find cool metal and he pulls the door open, grabs his cane as an afterthought, and stumbles toward the living room once more.

“Stark?” Loki calls, and the name comes out a bit strangled.

“He’s in his room, I think,” Banner says from the direction of the kitchen. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” the god replies absently, already heading back down the hall. He knocks twice and waits.

The door opens with a protesting creak after a shouted, “Just a sec!” and some sounds he can’t make out because they’re muffled by the walls. When the mortal does eventually get there, though, he’s clearly concerned by either Loki’s demeanor or the blood on his hand. It’s hard to tell which without sight, but the way Stark says his name betrays his thoughts on whichever it is.

“Can I come in?” Loki manages to ask.

Stark opens the door fully and pauses, maybe looking him over more thoroughly or maybe nodding in agreement. “Yeah, of course,” he says after a moment and ushers him inside.

Loki waits for the man to give him some indication of where to go, considering Stark’s tendency towards a rather eclectic take on organization. He leads him around some unknown obstacle to the bed and sits so Loki does as well, perching on the edge of the mattress with his elbows on his knees.

“What’s up?” Stark prods after Loki’s been silent for a bit too long.

Anxiety flares up in his chest and he digs his nails into the fresh cut to overpower it. The words spill out before he can stop them, falling over each other in desperation as he finally admits to a mortal something he’d not even been able to tell himself in his mind.

“I need help.”

Stark seems taken aback for a moment, not that Loki can particularly blame him. He’s still a bit surprised himself.

"Are you alright?" the mortal asks, leaning forward, but if he reaches out it's not close enough to feel it.

Loki shakes his head and drags a hand through his hair as he sucks in a slow breath. "I may have done something foolish."

“Was that just a generic statement about your life tendencies, or is there something specific?”

He laughs bitterly. "When you put it that way, perhaps a healthy serving of both. Or unhealthy, as it were; you get my meaning. I was speaking more about the former in this instance though."

Fingers trail briefly over his forearm, and the heat of Stark's skin seems to linger in the wake of their path. It's both reassuring and discomforting in the same instant to have that reminder of companionship but Loki tries to cling to the better of the two and take strength from it. Dancing away from the claws of a vengeful draugr comes naturally to him... asking for help most certainly does not. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket with one hand and out for Stark's own hands with the other, turning it over when he finds it so he can set a small syringe in the man's palm.

"You were right, all those months ago, I think," Loki tells him quietly. "Just after Christmas."

He half expects the mortal to make some quip about always being right, but it doesn't come. Instead as his fingers close around glass Stark just asks, "About what?"

"About the rather addictive properties of certain Midgardian substances."

The curses Stark breathes are barely audible, even with Asgardian hearing. "Have you been taking morphine again?"

"No," Loki replies with a grim smile. "I'm afraid it's rather difficult to find the stuff here, even with access to the clinic so I can assure you my bad decision-making skills far exceed your expectations."

"Then what normally goes in the needle?"

The god shakes his head and chuckles humorlessly. "It's rather ironic, really. I’m usually quite good with dragons…”

A rather pregnant pause stretches between them, the tilt of his lips entirely self-deprecating as he waits for the response. Outrage wouldn’t be entirely unexpected, if he’s honest. In the end it would have probably hurt less than the quiet, almost broken sounding way that Stark says, “God, Loki, please tell me you didn’t.”

He doesn’t reply. Doesn’t know _how._ Instead he lets his hair fall forward, ends brushing against his nose and hiding his thrice-cursed useless eyes from the man’s view. It’s a sorry excuse for something to hide behind but he refuses to stoop any lower than he already has.

Stark doesn’t say anything either, though, and the silence begins to feel stifling. Eventually the weight becomes too great to bear and he whispers, “It was an accident,” as he digs his nails into his thigh.

“You ‘accidentally’ woke up in some back alley with a bag of heroin and a silver spoon?” Stark scoffs. “I may be an idiot mortal, Loki, but I’m not quite that stupid.” Despite his words and tone of voice, though, his hands are gentle as he pulls Loki’s hand away from his leg and holds it between his own.

“No, I mean–” Loki sighs. “I heard through an acquaintance about a dealer around here. I hadn’t been planning to ever do anything with that information, but I ran across him and figured… what’s one dose to keep for a rainy day?”

“Can you say famous last words?”

“I told you it was foolish,” he snaps, “but you are a fool yourself if you believe me to be in perfect comfort all the time. Between the contraption in my chest, the emptiness where magic once flowed, and the pangs I still get since we escaped SHIELD… it seemed perfectly reasonable at the time.”

The mortal shifts on the bed so they’re closer, their knees brushing against each other. “Pangs?”

“From the drugs, Stark. The methadone. Or were you unaware of just how much they’d been giving me for those two months? Yes, I tapered off, but it was too fast and didn’t take well—I’d been craving more for days. An opportunity arose, and I took it. The addiction was an accident.”

“Isn’t it always?”

He’d told himself he wasn’t ashamed of this. Repeatedly. He had only done the best he could in a bad situation, after all, and what in that should he feel shame over? Now, though, actually speaking it aloud, that shame is stronger than ever. “The arc reactor fundamentally changed my body, and it affects me differently than it did you. It doesn’t just act as an aid to my heart; its energy bleeds into me in a far more complete way. I thought one dose would be alright, because with the reactor’s effect on my metabolism it would burn out of my system in a short amount of time, so when I had a bit of a painful day I took it.”

“When?”

Loki scrubs his free hand over his face, feeling very much like crawling into some dark hole in the overworn walls and staying there for the next couple centuries would be a fairly preferable alternative to this conversation. He might have to saw off an arm or something to fit, but does he really need both that badly? “I don’t know if you remember it; it wasn’t long after we’d gotten here. I was on edge and animus for over a week, though I can’t recall exactly how long it was. I had a knife to your throat in front of Banner once, even. That was the withdrawal, Stark. The day things changed and I became far more myself again was the day I gave in and took the first dose. I knew it was an opiate like morphine and methadone and that it would, in theory, help both the symptoms of going off the methadone so quickly and the pain I’d been taking methadone for in the first place. And it did. It more than did.” He takes a shaky breath, distantly wondering what Stark did with the syringe before brushing the thought aside. “The heroin doesn’t just chase the agony away, it— Norns, Stark, when I use it I actually feel alive again. Well and truly alive, _happy_ even. It’s been so long since I could remember what that was like and I think that’s as addictive as the drug itself.”

Loki sighs heavily. “My body gains resistance quickly, though, and I’ve been using even higher doses to counter the cold spells. Nothing but the heroin and the morphine have even managed to take the worst of the edge off, and even if they don’t stop them they at least make them something slightly resembling survivable. Naturally, the drugs sold on the street are heavily cut with other things. I can only filter so much of it out, and twice now I’ve almost overdosed because of either the combination or getting a purer batch than usual. That’s what finally convinced me I needed to stop. And I’ve tried, Stark, I have, but I _can’t._ My body craves it too badly and after a few days I lose my ability to resist the pull. Right now it’s all I can do to sit here and speak to you instead of letting myself fall into that beautiful oblivion.”

Arms wrap around his waist and Stark’s goatee tickles his neck as the mortal hugs him tightly. After a moment Loki pulls him close in return, gripping the man’s shirt like a life raft in a storm and hides his face against his shoulder.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he admits, and his voice breaks slightly as fear flares up in the face of that unavoidable truth.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised I wouldn't abandon this fic, and I meant it. It's been a crazy, busy year filled with ups and downs and more art than I knew I could turn out in twelve months but Half-Step is near and dear to my heart in a way no other project of mine ever has been. Thank you all so much for all the incredible, unending support—the number of emails I've gotten has been quite frankly breathtaking and a few times I was so floored I didn't have words to reply with. I had no idea that what was meant to be a little side piece could grow into something that's meant so much to so many people. You guys are the ones who have made this possible in the end, and the credit is as much yours as it is mine.
> 
> Thank you so, so much. I love all of you more than words could ever express.


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